


Burn Bright

by Ghostcat



Category: SKAM (Norway)
Genre: Big Bang Challenge, Boy Squad, Director Even, Drama, Humor, M/M, Romantic Tension, SKAM Big Bang, SKAM Big Bang 2020, SKAM Season 3, Sexual Tension, Theatre AU, canon aligned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:14:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 92,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25479001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostcat/pseuds/Ghostcat
Summary: Isak Valtersen thinks nothing could be worse than getting accidentally cast in Nissen's production ofRomeo and Juliet. Until he gets to know the play's student director, Even Bech Næsheim, who smiles way too much and is a constant, unnerving reminder of everything Isak wishes he could have.Red Curtains AU written for SKAM Big Bang 2020(completed on 10/21/20)
Relationships: Even Bech Næsheim/Isak Valtersen
Comments: 458
Kudos: 325
Collections: SKAM Big Bang 2020





	1. Dude, who are YOU?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [etal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/etal/gifts), [Hopetoseeyouagain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetoseeyouagain/gifts).



> Thank you for encouraging a very silly idea and being my first SKAM fandom bud, respectively. Much love to you both and thank you for making this fic possible with your fact-checking and insight.
> 
> This story was written for SKAM Big Bang 2020. Thank you to the mods for arranging this and allowing yours truly to stretch out posting because _of course I got the plague and broke two laptops_. I never thought my first Big Bang would be quite so eventful. Thank you for letting me break the posting rules a bit and spare everyone from reading ~~60K~~ 90-something K in one sitting.
> 
> To any Norwegian readers, please let me apologize in advance for any inaccuracies. Whenever possible I have tried to make up for it.
> 
> Lastly, a thousand thanks to my Big Bang/ _Burn Bright_ artist partner, **[vanderheijdnn](http://www.vanderheijdnn.tumblr.com)** , who created this lovely piece for the story. You have the patience of a saint. <3
> 
> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/189451906@N04/50147839248/in/dateposted-public/)  
> 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Fantastic,” Twelve calls out, jolting them back to reality. “Thank you, Magnus Fossbakken, and,” he pauses to read out loud from the sheet, exaggerated and slow, with a hint of a smile,“‘Not Auditioning, Just Scene-Partnering’. The cast list should be posted on Wednesday, first rehearsal's next Tuesday. Best of luck to you, Magnus. And Scene Partner.”
> 
> Magnus points to him. “That’s Isak! Isak Valtersen.” He grabs Isak by the shoulder and shakes him. “Good luck, Isak!”

One of the many tricks that Isak plays, in order to fool himself into sleeping, is to pretend that there is no end to the week; the work never stops. School work is replaced by social effort, which is once again replaced by school work. There is no real first day of the week, it goes on and on. No downtime either, no matter what the plans are, like tonight. Eva’s party-gone-wrong, with first-years he doesn’t want to kiss, police at the door, weed he has to stash in a garden, and a get-away that nearly isn’t because Jonas has no fucking balance.

All of it is exhausting, and he should take sleep when he can get it; love it like a cool song, or a six on an exam.

He’s home by 2.00, in bed five teeth-brushing minutes later, and still awake until 4.00, when his thoughts finally go dark.

Saturday goes into Sunday, which melts into Monday. Rinse, repeat.

The trick doesn't tire him out like it should. Isak’s not a quitter though or maybe he’s just stubborn. Only the weak need sleep, and he isn’t weak. He has no time for it.

On the tram that morning, he yawns without covering his mouth, and a woman sitting nearby shoots him a dirty look. He offers an apology, but her look gets dirtier, like he’s kicked her dog or something. His guilt disappears entirely, because _whatever_. He’s tired, not a monster. Isak is considering doing it again, out of sheer pettiness, when a low laugh turns his head.

It’s a boy, around his age. Sitting by the window and laughing to himself, eyes on the street.

He’s beautiful.

The thought makes Isak take a step back, still holding on to the pole. It’s not a thing he does, going around thinking of boys as beautiful; but the boy’s lips are a plump circle, half-parted, tongue flicking at the corner of his smile.

Isak’s holding his phone so tight he accidentally presses the volume waaaaay up on _A Milli_ , and he lowers it quickly before the bass causes his eardrums to burst. When he looks back up, the boy’s staring right at him. His gaze is easy, soft, and near-indolent, like he has all the time in the world to stare.

Isak turns away immediately, and doesn’t look anywhere near the boy for the rest of the ride. He doesn’t want to know what the boy’s stop is, or if he’s still staring. He doesn’t want to know anything.

By noon, he’s forgotten all about it.

In the cafeteria, Jonas plays him some badass YouTube skater reverse-vids on his phone. The skaters go backwards and around in smooth, then jerky, completely surreal ways, as if they’re running on invisible tracks; they do this both on the curved ground and in their clean arcs through the air. As cool as their performance is, Isak stifles about ten yawns, and Jonas, being a solid guy, doesn’t call him out for it.

“Sorry,” Isak mumbles after another yawn. “That is awesome, bro.”

“Right? This guy Matthias knows is gonna come by and film me in the summer. I have some ideas.”

“Count me in to assist, if you need it.”

Magnus, who has been talking to Mahdi, turns to Isak excitedly. “So are you psyched for today?”

Isak stares at him.

“You’re going to help me audition for the play.”

“I am?”

“I need a scene partner, and you said you would.”

Jonas nods, “You told him you would last night.”

Isak does a quick mental shuffle of everything that happened last night. At no time does he recall making any promises about auditions. He pivots to Mahdi and Jonas. “Why can’t either of you do it?”

The two boys sigh simultaneously, resembling, for a moment, a pair of over-it bookends.

“Because we’re auditioning too, and we already paired up,” Mahdi answers with one of those tight smiles of his, which hover somewhere between amusement and ‘you dipshit’ irritation.

“Okay...” Isak frowns. “Why is everyone trying out for plays all of a sudden? Since when do any of you give a fuck about _drama_? Are we singing and dancing in revues next? What the fuck?”

Jonas laughs, shaking his head.“Since they’re offering additional credit and getting us out of PE, hell yessssss.”

“Why are they offering all that?”

“Do you ever pay attention, dude?” Mahdi sighs. “Why don’t you go take a nap or something?”

Jonas elbows Mahdi, then nods. “It’s because of your roommate, Isak.”

“Eskild?”

“No, the one that actually goes to this school.”

“Noora?” _Never_ -roommate, more like. She and her boyfriend moved together into an apartment in Majorstuen, freeing up her room to become Isak’s. The boys don't know that Isak was secretly camping out in their basement, though. No point in-

Aaaaand the light bulb flickers on.

"Right. I forgot."

Noora complained that the past four Nissen school productions had been chosen by a committee of male students, always favoring male-heavy casts. She argued, successfully, that not only should the girls be allowed to do their own all-female production, but they should also select the play for the all-male production.

“TWO shows!” Magnus wiggles in his seat and hoots excitedly, “And they’re worried they won’t have enough people to be in them, hence the extra shit. That’s so fuckin’ RAD.”

Magnus’s eyes are practically bugging out of his head with excitement, Jonas and Mahdi are listening, and Isak doesn’t give fuck. He’s eating a dry roll that feels drier with every swallow. Each fragment balls up in his throat, yet he keeps biting off piece after piece.

“And, more importantly, it’s fair,” Jonas says, with a nod.

“So what did they pick?” Isak asks through a mouthful of bread. He feels like he should show interest, if only to keep himself in the conversation. He angles his mouth to the side, creating a space beside the bread in his mouth, and yawns again.

“ _Julius Caesar_ for the girls,” Magnus replies. “For the boys they picked _Romeo and Juliet_.”

“The fuck?”

“I know!”

“That’s so gay.”

“How is that gay?” Jonas levels him with a hard stare.

Isak raises an eyebrow. “How is it not? Romeo meets Juliet, they kiss, secretly marry, then die. Do you not remember this from class?”

Magnus' mouth falls open. “Oh shit, they die? Dude, spoilers.”

“Yes, I still fail to see how that’s gay?” Jonas gives him a little head shake.

Isak’s frown settles in the middle of his face like a knot. “It’s an all _male_ production. Which means Juliet is going to be played by a _boy_ , that’s two _boys_ , two, pledging their eternal love, in RHYME and like, kissing. On the _mouth_. Repeatedly. That’s some textbook-definition gay, Jonas.”

“Not really, no. One of those actors is playing a woman, just like they did back in Shakespeare’s time. A girl kisses a boy, a boy kisses a girl. It’s het. Or wait, did you mean ‘gay’ as a pejorative? Because that’s really not cool.” Jonas’s brows are like two angry, judgmental caterpillars. “What’s your deal, anyway?”

“My deal?” Isak splutters. “I don’t give a shit. You guys want to make out with other dudes, be my guest. I don’t need extra credit in any subject, because as per usual, I'm going to make my classes my bitch, _chhhyeah_.”

Isak stuffs the last piece of bread in his mouth, chews, then holds his mouth open to display the mess to Magnus, who seems to be trying to formulate a thought.

“So is there a lot of making out? Because...woah.”

“Magnus, you need Jesus,” Mahdi says, shaking his head.

Isak poses for a bread-mouth photo for Jonas, who immediately uploads it to his insta. He laughs at the caption and shows it to Isak, before turning to Magnus.

“It’s just acting, Magnus. Stage kissing isn’t like real kissing anyway.”

“For real?” Mahdi looks up from his phone.

“No tongue.”

“And how do you know so much about stage kissing, bro?”

Jonas pops open a can of soda, it fizzes loudly. “Thea does a lot of plays.”

“Your sister is cute,” Magnus says dreamily.

“No way.” Jonas laughs. “Hard rule. No sister-thirst. Off-limits.”

“I just imagined Magnus hitting on my older sisters, and I don’t know whether to laugh or throw up,” Mahdi opines.

“Definitely throw up,” Isak grumbles.

Mahdi squints at Isak, shaking his head. “Man, if your ugly ass had a sister, it would be some Medusa shit, you angry cartoon-badger-looking motherfucker.”

Magnus cackles uproariously. “Isak does have a sister, Mahdi! Lea. She’s, like, four years older than him and, like, craaaazy hot.”

“Word?” Mahdi frown-smiles, clearly disbelieving that anyone sharing Isak’s DNA could be attractive.

“They look alike, but she’s the hot girl version of Isak, with, like, boo―”

“Magnus, NO.”

“Okay, okay,” Jonas says, throwing Isak a sympathetic glance. “Let’s not go there.”

“So if you get cast as Juliet, you’d be fine with it?” Isak asks, reaching for Jonas’s soda. Jonas nods, and Isak accepts it as an answer to the question and the thievery.

“Sure.”

“What if Penetrator Chris hadn’t graduated, and he was cast as your Romeo? You still good?”

“Don’t be a dick, Isak.”

Isak raises an eyebrow and takes a sip.

Jonas sighs. “And yes, I’d be fine.”

Isak stares at his best friend, implying his lack of belief. Jonas shrugs, flicks a plastic wrapper at Isak’s arm, and looks over at Mahdi and Magnus, who are having their own conversation about what counts as spoilers. He drops his voice. “Did you get the weed yet?”

“No, bro, I have to go after school and pick it up.”

“Don’t let Mahdi find out you left it over at Eva’s,” Jonas continues with a grimace. “He’ll flip.”

“Chill. It’s all good. I’m taking care of it. He won’t even know.”

“What are you guys whispering about over there?”

“We’re trying to figure out what garbage concept the Penetrators are gonna come up with for Russ,” Isak bullshits easily.

“Hold up. Now that all the ‘97s graduated, why are these poseurs calling themselves ‘The Penetrators’?” Mahdi asks. “Shouldn’t they have a new name?”

“Like Penetrators II: Sloppy Seconds?” Magnus guffaws at his own joke.

“Penetrators II: Two Less Brain Cells,” Isak offers.

Jonas raises an eyebrow. “Wow. One each? That’s generous.”

“They’re both William’s.” Mahdi says. “Penetrator Chris has zero, obviously.”

“Obviously.” The two boys fist-pump solemnly.

“I overheard one of the dance chicks saying that an all-male Romeo and Juliet sounded hot,” Magnus murmurs. “So it’ll probably up our chances of getting in with them.”

They process this information.

“I’m not doing it,” Isak announces with finality, before handing Jonas back the empty can and stifling a burp.

“Like you’d get cast. Who wants to look at you when your boy Mahdi is in the area?” Mahdi kisses his own biceps. “I'm the one they wanna be.”

Isak flips Mahdi off. They all laugh, except for Magnus, who now seems more agitated than excited.

“You’re still gonna help me though, Isak; you said yes. I really want to be in the show, and you’re the best at clowning around. Please, please, please, please?”

Isak shakes his head.

“Fuck. What about you guys, either of you? You just have to read from the script I printed out, and barely that even. There’s, like, no lines because the character has selective mutism.”

Isak cracks up. “Honestly, Magnus. You’re fucking insane.”

“I told you buddy,” Jonas says, slapping Magnus on the shoulder. “I’m already auditioning. With him-”

“-With me,” Mahdi confirms.

Magnus stares at them all. “So none of you will help me? Guys, I need this. This play could change things for me. Girls would actually see me because I’d be...visible. And then I’d get laid!”

As Jonas explains, way too kindly, the stupidity of that statement, Isak hears laughter across the cafeteria and follows the path of sound to its source: the boy from the number twelve tram, long legs crossed at the ankle. He’s sitting on the benches that line the far wall and scribbling in a green notepad. A teacher that Isak vaguely recognizes from some assemblies, and also their principal, stand in front of the boy, laughing; they half-obscure the view, like clouds over the sun.

The eventual reveal is glorious. Twelve’s smile is sweet, as if he’s actually listening, anticipatory and open; not pretending, like Isak is, seemingly always. The boy glances over, staring right at him, and Isak looks down, putting his finger on a tiny breadcrumb on the tray and inspecting it.

“Isak will help you, Mags. Right, man?” Jonas nudges Isak’s knee with his under the table. Isak sighs, then plasters on a smile. Anything to shut down this topic. Sometimes it’s better to just give in to Magnus than deal with his whining.

“After school? Don’t worry. We’ll get you in this play, and you’ll get to kiss the girl. I mean, guy.”

Jonas’ look is baleful, and Isak winks.

* * *

After school, he borrows Jonas’s bike and rides over to Eva’s, knowing she’ll be at auditions for _Julius Caesar_ , and the coast will be well clear. He comes prepared with a tin of Nescafe. He’s not an amateur.

Isak leans the bike against Eva’s door, then makes like he’s ringing the doorbell for half a minute before reversing casually into her front yard. He sticks his hand under the paving stone by the hedgerows, retrieving the bag of weed he hid there when he left the party on Saturday, and immediately stuffs it in the Nescafe container. It all goes so smoothly, Isak nearly whistles as he rides away, weaving through the tidy Grefsen streets. He avoids the route that takes him past his house and the gold-plated sign with all the Valtersens listed on the door.

Of course, Magnus’s overdramatic ass nearly faints with gratitude when Isak arrives back at Nissen. Magnus was honest about their scene. Isak’s part doesn’t require much talking and Magnus has his part mostly memorized. They run it through twice, and that’s as good as it’ll get, really.

 _The guys weren’t wrong_ , Isak thinks. There’s a shit-ton of students waiting to audition. Not just drama geeks, but all the new second-coming Penetrators, jocks galore, and random nerds. Inside the theater, Isak can hear some guy singing, then screaming―death metal, of course.

Magnus stares at the door, jiggling his leg hard enough to make the chair squeak. “Fuck. Do you think I should have prepared a song?”

“Calm down, you’ll be fine.”

Thirty minutes later, their names are called by a frazzled looking first-year; they go into the theater, and are handed a clipboard. Isak signs in and writes NOT AUDITIONING, ONLY SCENE PARTNERING instead of his name. The teacher he’d seen earlier this afternoon greets them without looking up from a notepad.

The theater is a square-shaped room, and the floor and walls are painted black. There are raised, tiered platforms against the walls, where chairs are usually set up, but today they’re stored elsewhere. All the lights are bright and hot on the stage area only, leaving the audience section dark. Not that Isak needs to see who is out there; he just has to listen to Magnus, follow his lead. Their scene is from some television show Magnus loves. They’re hit men, and Magnus does all the talking, while Isak stands back and tries to look imposing.

He’s tanking, Magnus, forgetting the lines or laughing, and Isak speaks out into the dark. “Can he just read from his script?”

“That won’t be necessary.”

The voice puts Isak at attention.

Isak hadn’t seen him, the guy from the tram, the one with the pretty smile and the eyes; but he’s there, sitting with a clipboard. Isak sees the boy’s blue-jeaned legs first as he stands, and it feels like he keeps rising for an hour. Twelve approaches the woman in the front, whispers something, then hops down the last couple of stair-seats, two at a time.

 _He’s fucking tall_ , Isak thinks, sticking his hands in his pockets as he steps back from the guy. Twelve smiles, revealing a very white, straight-toothed smile flanked by two sharp-looking canines. He looks like the world’s happiest vampire. Magnus smiles back at him, the way a baby might.

Sometimes Isak wonders how Magnus is still alive.

Twelve thanks them for the scene, asks if they’d be willing to do an improvisation, and Isak frowns at the sound of his voice; it’s a low, pleasant rumble that feels conspiratorial.

The guy tells Magnus that his girlfriend is cheating on him, and that he should vent to his roommate—Twelve points to Isak—about it. Twelve then turns to Isak and motions for him to come closer, before leaning down to whisper in his ear, “It’s you. _You’re_ sleeping with his girlfriend.”

Isak tilts his head back and focuses on the tiny shriveled piece of chewing gum glistening on Twelve’s tongue—mint. The guy continues, in a whisper, his breath cool against Isak’s skin.

“You _want_ him to know. But you also want to toy with him. So do it. Play.”

Twelve smiles again. Isak raises an eyebrow.

“That’s fucked up.”

“You got it.” The guy winks, and it looks like a twitch. It’s the thing that makes Isak finally give in and laugh.

“Can you handle it?”

Isak crosses his arms. “Can I handle it? Please. Piece of cake.”

Twelve’s shoulders hitch up when he laughs; any more twinkling from those eyes, and Isak will be joining the idiot brigade, too. He licks his lips and nods. “Should we begin?”

“Yes.” Twelve clears the stage and calls out from the audience, “Start when you’re ready. I’ll let you know when to stop.”

Magnus sits down, runs fingers through his hair, and starts babbling about someone sleeping with his girl, and how he needs to figure out who it is. He rambles, rushed and stilted, laughing as if it’s a joke. That won’t do.

“Why?” Isak stretches.

“Huh?” Magnus’ gawp is laughable, so Isak laughs, allowing a bit of edge to bleed into it. Magnus should know he’s being made fun of.

He doesn’t. “I don’t get it.”

“You heard me. I asked _why_?” Isak grins. “Why do you need to know? What difference does it make? She did it, it’s over, who cares who it is?”

His friend mulls this, and Isak knows he’s got him. Magnus isn’t trying to make shit up anymore, he’s tricked him into thinking about their conversation, not the performance. Isak can’t let that sense of victory show, though. He waits and waits, giving Magnus a chance to volley, before continuing the game. He’s the cat, Magnus is the mouse. There’s no way back.

“Unless...you _need_ to know. Because you’re worried.”

“Worried?” Magnus swallows.

“That he’s better-looking. Has a bigger dick.”

“Huh?”

Isak laughs down at his feet and smiles back up as sweetly as possible. “I mean,” he shrugs, taking off his snapback and sweeping his hair to the side. “-yes and yes.”

“Do you know something?”

A wider grin. “Maybe.”

“What? How?” Magnus looks out into the darkened auditorium, presumably at Twelve, then back at Isak, who narrows his eyes meaningfully.

“Think about it.”

This is just like a horror movie. The kind where you watch people walking into darkened rooms, right into the knife. Or the part in Alien where they go into the hold and start poking the pod, and you know that dude’s gonna get a face full of death. The difference is that this, right here—watching Magnus slowly connect the dots—is _hilarious_ , and Isak’s not allowed to laugh.

“What are you saying?”

“I don’t know, Magnus. What could I possibly be saying?”

“Uh...I don’t-”

Isak speaks slowly. “Your girlfriend’s been looking so relaxed lately, don’t you think? When you get home from work, she’s already smiling.”

“What?”

“Okay, getting there.” Isak clicks his tongue. “It’s good that I’m here to help her get in the mood for you, don’t you think? I mean, what are friends for?”

There is nothing else happening right now except for Magnus—his eyes darting around, mouth hanging open like a dead fish—thinking and thinking _hard_. Isak pulls up his shirt and scratches his stomach. Knowing Magnus and his general insecurity, Isak flashing his abs is a pretty low blow, but he’s winning this thing, and this is the best way to make that win definitive.

Magnus eyes go from Isak’s stomach, down the length of his thigh, and back up to his face. He looks like he’s been punched in the gut. “Bro.”

“Bro.”

Isak leans over holding up a fist, and Magnus automatically bumps it with his own before pulling it back with a wince.

“What can I say? I’m a great friend.” Isak grins as wide as he can.

“Fantastic,” Twelve calls out, jolting them back to reality. “Thank you, Magnus Fossbakken, and,” he pauses to read out loud from the sheet, exaggerated and slow, with a hint of a smile,“‘Not Auditioning, Just Scene-Partnering’. The cast list should be posted on Wednesday, first rehearsal's next Tuesday. Best of luck to you, Magnus. And Scene Partner.”

Magnus points to him. “That’s Isak! Isak Valtersen.” He grabs Isak by the shoulder and shakes him. “Good luck, Isak!”

The guy scribbles some notes and confers with the drama teacher. As Magnus and Isak gather their things, the boy stops writing and turns over his shoulder. Says, “Yes, good luck to you both.”

Isak, elated and a little woozy, doesn’t correct him. Doesn’t say _no, man, I’m not auditioning._ He doesn’t even look at Twelve. He can’t. Isak nods once, instead, in that general direction, because that’s all he seems capable of doing with this guy. Then exits, pursued by Magnus.

“Dude.” Magnus reaches him, panting, just as he gets to the tram. “Stop running.”

“You okay?” Isak’s heart is practically in his ears, unaware until that point of how desperate he’d been to get away. He shakes his head, widens his eyes. “What’s up?”

“You didn’t fuck my girlfriend, right?”

“Magnus, you don’t have a girlfriend.”

“But you wouldn’t, if I did?”

Isak rolls his eyes and claps a hand on his shoulder. “I promise you I definitely wouldn’t.”

 _Because I wouldn’t want to_ , he almost admits, but, “Because you don’t do that to your friends,” isn’t a lie either. Mollified, Magnus pulls Isak into a fierce hug, his voice muffled by Isak’s flight jacket. “Dude, who are YOU? You went way hard. I thought I was gonna cry.”

“I’m sorry,” Isak pats Magnus’ back. “It was just pretend.”

Magnus gasps, steps back, and slaps himself on the forehead. “Oh my god, how big is your dick even? What was that about!? Give me details. Did you use that measurement app I told you about?”

“What the fuck?! No, dude. Stop. Too weird.”

“Oh shit! Is that how you get all the chicks? It is!”

“Magnus.”

“Okay, okay. But how did I do though? I _think_ it went well. You think I got a part?”

Magnus eyes are wide and hopeful as he sweeps his hair back and smiles with all his teeth. He looks the way little kids do when they pose for photos.

Isak can’t remember when Magnus went from being the guy who was always around, shadowing him and Jonas to parties, to a friend. He gradually came more and more into focus. Just like Mahdi with his grimace-smiles, who started off as Jonas’s weed buddy, and...tolerates Isak and Magnus, given that he’s there all the time too. And his accidental roommate Eskild, embarrassing and exasperating (and reassuring too, not that he’d ever tell him). Isak’s world is suddenly so crowded, and he’s grateful, he really is. But.

Sometimes he misses having fewer people to hide from.

“Yeah, Magnus, you’re definitely in.”

* * *

Isak forgets all about the casting announcement, but knows something is up the minute he arrives at school. First the dance chicks walk by, in formation, saying _good morning, Isak_ , in a creepy, sing-song _The-Shining_ -sort-of-way, as if he’s someone they’re expected to know. Then Jonas and Mahdi text him near simultaneously: _the cast list is up,_ _it’s crazy_ from the former, and _wtf, bro_ from the latter. As Isak goes down the hall, people are looking at him, and some Penetrators II douchebags blow kisses. Noora bows. Sana gives him a cool, assessing look that makes the hair on his neck rise. Vilde...well, he avoids eye contact so as not to encourage her. He picks up the pace and runs the rest of the way to the bulletin board, pushing past the crowd...and there’s his name right beneath Bille Froberg as Romeo...Isak Valtersen as Juliet.

_Hell, no._

He’s not doing it.

_No way._

Isak doesn’t read the rest of the cast list, the names are a blur. He stands there, numb to people congratulating him, and tries to find the contact person for this thing so he can tell them there’s been a mistake.

He sees that the production is being directed by a third-year student.

“Even Bech Næsheim,” he reads out loud. “Who the fuck is that?”

“That’s me,” says a deep voice at his side.

Twelve, no, _Even_ , in a jean jacket with red Ray-Bans clipped to it, bumps Isak’s shoulder and nods. “Hello, Isak Valtersen. I look forward to working with you.”

In the hall light, which favors no one, Isak silently acknowledges that Even’s one of those people who’s really good looking all the time. Isak doesn’t know what to focus on—his eyes, mouth, or weirdly, his neck, which is pale and stupidly long. Compared to everyone else, Even appears to be in saturated insta filter-like color: blues, pinks and ivories. It trips Isak up, to not have the necessary language to describe the overall visual. Handsome seems too simple, beautiful does, too. Especially standing this close, where everything, even Even’s imperfections, are a kind of attack.

Even Bech Næsheim. Who waggles his eyebrows at Isak, twice, and lopes away as if he’s just dropped a mic.

_Fuck._

This is easily the least chill, most uncool thing that’s ever happened to him, and he’s witnessed a crying Eskild watching Eurovision.

_Fuck. A thousand times, fuck._

* * *

After English, Isak returns to the bulletin board with the cast list, this time to process it past his name. Magnus is already there, chewing gum. He offers a high-five.

> Bille Froberg...Romeo Montague  
> Isak Valtersen...Juliet Capulet  
> Jonas Noah Vasquez...Friar Laurence  
> Mahdi Disi...Benvolio/2nd Musician  
> Magnus Fossbakken...The Nurse  
> Ragnar Bergheim...Mercutio  
> David Furevold...Prince Escalus  
> Gregard Kjørstad...Old Capulet  
> Jens Øverjordet...Lady Capulet  
> Ulrik Myhrer...Montague/Friar John/3rd Musician  
> Nils Astrup...Tybalt/Apothecary  
> Emil Andersen...Gregory/Antony/Chorus  
> Hiro Hogstad...Sampson/Petruchio/1st Musician/Chorus  
> Julian Dahl...Paris  
> Erik Breidlid...Rosaline/Lady Montague  
> Tore Ertl...Citizen of Verona/Balthasar/1st Watchman   
> TBD...Citizen of Verona/Peter/2nd Watchman   
> Julian Mahler...Chorus/Abram/Potpan/3rd Watchman  
> TBD...Chorus/2nd Servingman/Paris’s Page  
> TBD...Chorus/1st Servingman/Mercutio’s Page  
> TBD...Chorus/3rd Musician/Abram  
> TBD...Chorus/3rd Servingman/Potpan 

Isak doesn't know half these people.

“YO, mans. We’re ladies!” Magnus crows. A couple of first-years appear, and Magnus high fives them, too. “And I think I have to kiss Jonas!”

“What?”

Isak reads the cast list again. Jonas is playing Friar Laurence, Mahdi is Benvolio, and Magnus is the Nurse. Outside of his crew, there’s Ragnar Bergheim, the douchebag second time-third year with the long hair and ever-present bandanna who was in the Penetrators v.1 last year, as Mercutio, Gregard Kjørstad, a loud and obnoxious red-headed third year who Isak used to play soccer with, is Juliet’s dad. There are third years he doesn’t really know, and some minor roles have TBD written next to them. A few people are playing more than one character. There’s a lot more names there than he’d expected.

_How big is this production going to be?_

“The Nurse makes out with the Friar, right?”

“No, Magnus. The Nurse doesn’t make out with the fucking Friar. Jesus.”

“Hey, bro. Bro. Broooo.“ Magnus latches on to Isak’s backpack and jostles it. “Did I tell you this thing won’t be a complete sausage fest after all? They don’t have enough guys, so a couple of first-year girls are going to be cast in some ensemble parts. Including that hot Emma chick you made out with at Eva’s party.”

Isak scowls at the cast list, not recognizing anyone else. Thinking, _why couldn’t a first year play Juliet? Why is everyone way more cool about this than he is?_

“I hope my fake boobs are HUGE.”

In the fifteen minute break between Norwegian and History, he’s struggling with his locker when he sees Bille coming down the hallway, his BFF Ragnar hot at his heels. Isak has enough time to cast an alarmed glance over at Jonas before Bille steps between them and gets all in his face.

“Have you done this before?”

Isak looks at Bille’s nose. “Umm. What?”

“Acted?”

“No. Yes.”

Bille reminds him of a handsome shark, with his small, intense eyes, like two lustrous amber beads. They stare as if he’s trying to figure out whether Isak’s worth biting, and his immediate instinct is to smack the dude on the nose and run.

“Which is it? Yes or no?”

Isak lifts his chin and enunciates. “No.”

Bille nods, chewing his gum with a frown, before stalking past him through the double doors to the stairwell. Ragnar looks Isak up and down, grins, then cackles, “This is going to be hilarious.”

Isak frowns at Ragnar as the latter skips after Bille. Next to Isak, Jonas murmurs, “That wasn’t quite bullying, but still, not cool.”

Normally, Isak would riff about how that was a pale imitation of William and Penetrator Chris’s old routine, but he’s freaking out. He punches in his locker combo, but it still won’t open. The locker keeps denying him with a nasty little _buzz_

“Are you okay?”

“These lockers are the fucking worst, and so is that douchebag Bille, and I’m not doing this thing. I’m going to get out of it today.”

“I admit, I was surprised to see your name on the list. I thought you didn’t want to be in the play.”

“I don’t. I have no idea why he put me in the play. I didn’t even write my name down. Stupid Magnus and his audition. Fuck.”

“Even must have liked what he saw.”

“What does that—“

Nissen's principal walks by briskly, blonde hair held back with her signature headband. “Hello, Isak and Jonas. Congratulations! Isak, I’m looking forward to seeing your Juliet.”

Her heels clip-clop down the hall, and the boys watch her until she turns the corner.

“Bro, there’s no way you’re getting out of this.”

The rest of the day grows progressively worse. All these random girls suddenly start coming up to Isak to touch his hair, or coo at him like he’s a fucking doll. Even Nipples in Bio asks about the play, much to Sana’s barely-concealed delight.

“What are you laughing at? Aren’t you in a play, too?”

Sana raises a perfect comma-shaped eyebrow. “Yes, but ours isn’t a love story. You’re going to have to bat your long lashes at that half-yogurt, half-testicle Bille and pretend he’s the most beautiful boy in the world. So tell me, Isak, who’s really going to be struggling?”

He narrows his eyes. She gives him one of her bitchy close-mouthed grins and turns to face front; opens up her textbook, which is already highlighted into a solid wall of yellow.

Isak has to tell them he’s out before rehearsals start. When his last class ends, he walks to the theater to speak to the head drama teacher, Sofia, the lady who was at the audition; finds Even himself sitting in her office instead. He drinks from a mug with an illustration of a red balloon on it and sketches something in pencil. Biggie’s _Hypnotize_ plays from his phone. When Even sees him, he closes his notepad with the eraser tip and smiles. So much smiling; he smiles too much. Isak has to dig his nails into his palms to remember why he’s here in the first place. To quit.

“Hello.”

How can Isak feel the rumble of Even’s voice in his chest now? “Hi.”

“I like your t-shirt.”

Isak looks down at it. It’s a bootleg Dr. Dre t-shirt Jonas bought online for Isak’s birthday last year. He opens his mouth to say so, but closes it, reminding himself, again, he’s here to quit the show.

Even’s feet are long, like speedboats. The bottoms of his sneakers are grayish, but they’re otherwise squeaky-clean―no gum, no dirt or mud, as if his feet don’t touch the ground.

“Congratulations on getting cast.”

“Uh. Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me. You were the only choice. I didn’t get a chance to say so, earlier. I was having too much fun watching you react to the news.”

Even laughs, and Isak manages a queasy smile.

“You are really talking my ear off.” Even sips his coffee, eyes made tiny from mirth. “Is this what I should expect in rehearsals, because-”

“Listen. I don’t want to do this.”

One of Even’s shoelaces is untied. Weirdly, Isak wants to tie it.

“Okay. Why?” Even asks softly.

“I wasn’t auditioning.” Isak forces himself to make eye contact, expecting Even to be angry, but his face shows nothing but concern. Isak goes on. “I’m not, like, a theatre nerd or anything. This isn’t my dream. I was just helping my friend Magnus out.”

“That’s really kind of you. You’re a good friend.”

“Thanks. Heh, not really. Look-” He shakes his head. “I didn’t want the part. I don’t want any part.”

“Why not? You’re talented.”

“I don’t feel comfortable.”

“What about it makes you uncomfortable, Isak?”

Hearing Even say his name should be a problem. It should make him feel like he expected it to―like electricity. It doesn’t. Instead it’s as if all the music in the world has stopped, and there are only two things left to do; breathe, and tell this boy the truth.

“Isak?”

“All of it. The crazy language, which I don’t understand, like, at all, the costumes, I’m NOT dressing like some girl, or speaking in a high-pitched voice. I don’t want to do that shit. It’s embarrassing.”

I don’t want to kiss some guy. Isak thinks that, too.

He can’t lie, though. For some reason, he just can’t seem to.

“I don’t want-” Isak licks his lips. “I don’t need to have people look at me in order to feel special.”

“What makes you feel special?”

Isak holds one hand in a fist. He shakes it out and stretches his fingers. “I don’t know. Nothing. I just want to be chill.”

Even stands but doesn’t approach. He leans and half-sits on the edge of Sofia’s desk. “Out of everyone, you had the best audition. When I stepped in and gave you a prompt; you ran with it. You knew where to take your scene partner without being told what to do. That’s exactly who I wanted for my lead, Isak. Someone smart, brave, and beautiful, who listens and pays attention.”

 _Beautiful?_ Isak must have misheard. He feels a headache starting, pulse-like, on the left side of his forehead. “But that scene you had us do—the improv—didn’t have anything to to do with love or iambic pentameter.”

“Ah, so you DO know ‘some shit’, then?” Even’s smile is so sweet, it amplifies the avid effect of his eyes.

“Everybody knows what iambic pentameter is, Even.”

The smile cracks open into a full-throated laugh, and Even bends forward from the force of it, slapping his knees.

Even looks back up, and his face slowly stills to seriousness, and Isak has never felt more scrutinized. So he returns to his near-hysterical eyeballing of Even’s sneakers. It’s airless and hot in this office. Isak can feel a drop of sweat slide from his hairline down the back of his t-shirt.

“You’re right, though. The scene I had you improvise had nothing to do with the play, but everything to do with focus, and commitment, and creativity, and fearlessness. Agree?”

Isak rolls his eyes. Even laughs softly and presses on.

“What you did with the prompt told me that whatever I ask of you, you’ll be able to do. Now, Bille doesn’t have your talent, but he has charisma, and will be a handsome and athletic Romeo. You can and will raise his game. Make him. Remember what the man says:” Even pauses before slipping into English. “ _If you’re scared to take chances, you’ll never have the answers._ ”

Isak has no idea what the fuck that is. “Umm, right.”

Even nods and laughs. “Right.”

“Look, I’m not wearing a dress and lipstick and a long-haired wig, so.” _No, no, no. What is he doing? QUIT._

“Did I say you were going to wear a dress?”

“What?”

“Our Juliet is not going to be in a dress. Your hair is perfect as is.”

Even brings his hands up— _no way are those normal-sized thumbs_ —and, at a distance, frames Isak’s face like a film director. He ‘takes a picture’ with a whispered _click_. “You’re going to be amazing. I can feel it. See you at rehearsal.”

It’s not a question. Isak nods and leaves, walking numbly back to his hell locker.

_What the fuck just happened?_

In the cafeteria, he sinks down in his seat, and joylessly slurps some noodles as he highlights some of tonight’s reading. Jonas tells him about a new skate park they’re building in Grefsen, which would make a good location for that video shoot. Isak usually knows just when to grunt, and lift his brows, and say, “Oh?” But he forgets to, this time. It takes a moment or two to hit, the heavy, winter-duvet weight of conversational silence. He looks up, and Jonas is just staring at him.

“Sorry?” It’s a question, because while Isak is certainly apologetic, the apology feels too telling.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. It’s this play. I tried to quit, but he didn’t let me.”

“Who, the director? Even?”

“He just went on and on, and I couldn’t back out, and it’s just, like...fuck. You know?”

Jonas continues watching him, not even chewing.

“What?”

“I think...you need to give this a chance. The experience might be better than you think. Of all of us, you’ve always been the mimic.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, dude. You’re a star.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Isak crumples up his napkin and throws it in Jonas’s face. He smacks it back instantly.

“Besides.” Jonas scratches his nose. “We’ll all be there. Group hang.”

Isak keeps the smile on his face, but the thought, then, of the boys and Even being in the same place is off-putting in a way he can’t explain. More so than playing a girl in a Shakespeare play. He goes cold from his head to his heart.

Maybe.

He stalls on the word maybe, his highlighter poised over the page.

Maybe he can convince Even that he’s not worth the trouble.

He’ll show up at rehearsal and just fucking suck. Everyone will see it, and they’ll have to bench him. Or whatever it’s called in the theatre.

They’ll cast a first-year girl instead, and put him in the back as one of the random soldier guys.

 _Okay. That could work_ , he thinks. _That’s a plan._

But he can’t half-ass it. It has to look convincing. So he has to try...a little. For a week at least, and then he can really stink up the place.

“Did you get the weed?”

“Yeah, it’s in the Nescafe tin in my bag.”

“Cool, I’m gonna grab some, if that’s okay.”

“Make sure to tell your boyfriend, Mahdi, that it's-” Isak clicks his tongue and switches to English. "Aaaaall good."

Jonas throws up a middle finger while he digs through Isak’s bag. He stops and grunts, obviously trying to take off the Nescafe lid.

“Isak. Did you give any to Mahdi today? Because you’re light. This is half of what we bought.”

“What?”

“Dude. Where did you hide it?”

Isak replays the moment they rode off on their bikes from the party and goes backward: policewoman, hedges, Eva's bedroom window.

“In the garden, where Eva used to leave a spare set of keys for us.”

“It’s half-gone.”

“I’ll fix it,” Isak blurts.

“You’re gonna give us half the money to cover the loss?”

“I’ll fix it,” he repeats, less sure.

* * *

> _Two households, both alike in dignity,_   
>  _In fair Verona, where we lay our scene._

It makes no sense. Isak sits in his bed, back in his room, and rubs his eyes. He opens up a notes doc in his laptop and saves the blank document as “RandJ”. For notes, he supposes. It feels too definitive, though. Like he’s actually doing the play.

A text comes in from Mahdi asking about the missing weed. _Fuck._

“Isaaaaaak.”

He closes the book and sits up. “Eskild.”

“Sorry to interrupt your...studies.”

“Why did you say it like that? I am studying.”

Eskild raises both eyebrows. “Okay, the over-clarification was not necessary, I was only going to offer you dinner, but I guess,” he stops to sigh and flick at an invisible spot on the wall. “I guess you can live off the frozen meals you steal from Linn.”

Isak scrambles out of bed. “No, please, I’ll take dinner.”

“Aaw, so polite when he wants to be.” Eskild fusses with his hair, and Isak swats him away. “Linn brought home two pizza boxes from some student-union event. I love my little scavenger.”

The three of them settle on the couch and dig into their pizza. Isak considers grabbing a couple of slices and taking them back to his room, but he stays put, knowing Eskild would think it was rude. And it is. He is.

“Earth to spaceboy.”

“What?”

“You’re reading _Romeo and Juliet_?”

Isak frowns. Eskild wipes grease off his mouth, then folds the napkin in half and reaches for Isak’s cheek. 

“How do you know?” he says, evading the approaching napkin. 

“I saw it on your bed. I was in my high school production. I played Mercutio.”

Isak raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“It was highly acclaimed performance. Award-winning.” Eskild elbows Linn. “Linn, did you hear? I was amazing.”

“I did a play once,” Linn says flatly. “Pippi Longstocking. A reviewer said I was ‘effervescent’.”

Eskild widens his eyes and pivots his head slowly to Isak. “Okay, _sure_ , Linn, that sounds completely realistic.”

Isak’s phone chimes with a new notification. He looks at it quickly. Mamma. A long one.

He waits until Eskild and Linn are fully wrapped up in their stupid reality show and says good night. He brushes his teeth and stares at himself in the mirror. When he frowns, a line appears between his eyebrows, when he smiles it disappears. He wonders if it will grow into his face as he gets older, stay as a deep-seated wrinkle, so that everyone knows what he’s really about. That he’s angrier than he seems. That his smiles are rarely real. How will he fake it, then, when the proof’s right on his face?

As usual, his mom’s batshit religious texts seem to comment on his situation. But to imagine they do is delusional. It’s like her crazy is contagious.

**if i speak in the tongues of man and of angels but have not love i am a NOISY gongg or a clangingcybal and if i have prophetic pwers and understand all mysteries and all Knowledge and i have all FAith so as to remove mountains but have NOT love i am nothing if i give away all i have and if i deliver up my body to be burned but have not love i gain nothing**

Isak can pretend like nearly anything is fine. He’s not that attached. He doesn’t care. He’s not bothered. Except for this. His mother speaks a language more convoluted than Shakespeare’s.

He rubs his eye and picks up the play again. He’s pretty sure the first two pages give away the end, which is some bullshit. Why stick around for the story if you know how it will end?

 _Fuck it._ Isak only needs to last a week or two―enough to make it convincing. He sighs, long and deep, and keeps on reading.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> songs for this chapter are: 
> 
> _Konichiwa Bitches_ by Robyn  
> (the week)  
>  _A Milli_ by Lil Wayne  
> (the boy on the tram)  
>  _Half Asleep_ by Yeasayer  
> (yawning in the caf)  
>  _Straight Outta Compton_ by N.W.A.  
> (the Grefsen pick-up)  
>  _No. 1_ by No. 4  
> (cast list)  
>  _Hypnotize_ by The Notorious B.I.G.  
> (quitting the play)  
>  _Breathless_ by Small Black  
> (outro)  
>   
> soundtrack can be listened to **[here](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLWfM4lhzgKQWns3CZDlp5Y_NFhjrQyaVI)**


	2. The Cool Guy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isak is not gay gay. He wouldn’t in a million years be caught dead flouncing around like Eskild. Or wearing a rainbow tutu, or whatever. But Even’s shoulder is touching his. It’s nothing, a solid press, and yet his heart pounds alarmingly in his chest.
> 
> He's tethered to this moment. Isak’s not hyping himself up, or pretending, because it’s real.
> 
> It occurs to him that he doesn’t know what to do with real.

That night, when he can’t sleep, Isak googles Even and doesn’t find shit. It’s like he doesn’t exist. There’s one old video of him at Bakka; it’s a mock interview, done by a guy who calls Even his ‘best bud’.

Isak snorts. _Who even talks that way?_

Even seems chiller, if that’s even possible; his hair is shorter. Isak watches the video about ten times, for no real reason at all.

He falls asleep around 4.00 and takes a standing nap on the tram to school.

No one mentions the play to Isak until Biology, when Sana asks him if he’s feeling more confident.

“Why wouldn’t I be confident?”

“No reason.”

Isak stares at her profile until Nipples calls his name, asking him a question he could answer in his sleep―a state in which he very nearly is. Sana continues to smile smugly and the anxiety returns, creeping into his thoughts.

Rehearsals begin on Tuesday, and that morning he spends an inconceivably long time getting dressed. First, he nixes his blue-and-red jacket, deeming it too colorful (and therefore, girly). He wears his Space Invaders t-shirt instead, adding a hoodie, with an Adidas jacket on top. His black sneakers seem like too much with the jacket, so he swaps them out with his trusty brown shoes. Jeans are jeans. All of his jeans look the same, more or less. He fits a maroon snapback on his head, a scowl on his face. Regular, is how he looks. Normal.

Eskild’s up, he must have classes that day, and he eyes Isak as he drinks his coffee.

“Do I look okay?” Isak doesn’t know why he asks.

“Do you want the truth?”

Isak inhales. “Yes.”

“You look like a twink in a porno.”

“What?”

Isak’s phone chimes, reminding him he needs to catch his tram or be late.

“Relax. I’m kidding,” Eskild sings, “You look fine. Very teen-boy aggro.”

That afternoon, Isak arrives at rehearsal with the boys. The only thing keeping him from losing his mind is the knowledge that he has a plan. Be terrible, get recast.

They all meet in the dance studio, since the girl’s production is rehearsing in the theater. Rows of tables have been pushed together to create a sort-of square “o” shape, and there are copies of the play in front of every assigned seat. There’s about twenty cast members in all. Isak sits next to Jonas and Magnus, and it helps a bit with the nerves to be flanked by his crew. Bille sits on the other side of the table, directly across from him, Mahdi on one side of him and Even on the other.

Isak avoids looking their way and focuses on his own hands, which rest on the table like they, too, are pretending to be invisible.

Everyone in the cast introduces themselves and says what role they’re playing. When Isak says, “Isak Valtersen, Juliet Capulet,” so nervous he can’t look up from the placecard with his name on it, everyone applauds. He doesn’t understand their excitement, or why they don’t question _him_ playing the part. How do they see him? Who do they think Isak Valtersen is?

Their director introduces himself last. Even tells them he’s excited to be staging on one of his favorite plays. He talks about _Romeo and Juliet_ ’s history, Shakespeare, a little about the original all-male productions at the Globe Theatre, and the role of the audience during that time period. About how they threw food at the bad guys and cheered the heroes. Isak laughs despite himself, swept up in everyone else’s laughter, nerves amplifying the sound until he feels like he’s overdoing it a little.

Briefly, their eyes meet. Isak swallows and focuses on the image on Even's t-shirt instead―Biggie and his tough guy pout.

It’s impressive. Even knows his shit. Rehearsal starts off chaotic, just boys yelling over each other, standing in various poses of don’t-give-a-fuckness. But Even, with his jean jacket, hair, and effortless cool, speaks in that rumbling voice and proceeds to own the room, one person at a time. 

Near the end of rehearsal, they finally open their scripts, not to read, but to cross out lines and entire sections. Even explains that the cuts are necessary, and he seems to say that directly to Isak―as if he knows Isak was wondering what was going on.

He’d worked himself up for nothing. No reading, no bad performance required.

The second meet-up on Wednesday is nearly identical, in that no acting takes place. Even calmly asks the assembled cast what they like to do outside of school and scribbles in that green notebook of his as they answer. Do they play any instruments? Or enjoy sport? What kind of music do they like? Volunteering? Student government? What makes them _them_? What matters most? Nothing is too dull or off-topic to discuss. The conversations lead to further conversations, and they veer off in ways that have nothing to do with the play or rehearsal.

It’s odd to hear his friends take part, as if they’ve been dumbing themselves down in conversation all this time. Like Jonas, who talks about how watching news coverage of the Utøya terrorist attacks when he was eleven years old changed his life. How he started asking his grandfather about politics and exile, made him question ideologies. How roses suddenly contained greater meaning than romance. Mahdi discusses his mom’s devout Catholicism, and his own aversion to organized religion. On and on, they surprise him like this, everyone around the table, falling in line with the mood, speaking articulately and openly.

Luckily, Magnus brings up his guinea pigs that like to chirp along to Adele, and only Adele. That, at least, is reassuringly simple.

When it’s his turn, Isak contributes nothing. He likes to game. He watches Netflix. Blah blah blah _Narcos_. _Stranger Things_. _Breaking Bad._ He doesn’t mention the situation with his parents, or the ridiculous dynamic at the Kollektiv, or his rapping skills. He is the dullest boy in the world. Even doesn’t even take notes for him, his notebook stays closed. It’s a good fake-listening though. Even’s eyes make him almost forget he’s in a room full of people. It’s dangerous.

The evening is rounded out with more cuts.

On Thursday, Even leads with a presentation on interpreting _Romeo and Juliet_. He shows them photos from “traditional” versions with people in tights and pointy hats, as well as more modern versions like one from the '80s with the guy that played Ned Stark as Romeo but young and in a boxy suit. He shows them a video of scenes from _Romeo and Juliet_ that use acrobatics, elements of dance, or one where the roles of Juliet and Mercutio are played by the same actor. Ragnar guffaws at that one and Bille smacks him in the chest. Isak makes a fist under the table.

“Our production of _Romeo and Juliet_ ,” and Even stresses that first word with a sweeping look around the room, “-will be set in the present-day, using a spare white set and contemporary music for cues.”

“So there will be modern costumes?” one of the few first-year girls in the cast asks excitedly.

“Yes and contemporary music.”

There are excited murmurs among the cast and Isak shares a relieved look with Jonas.

“My main medium is film so I'd like to bring that into this production by using projections and a backdrop that doubles as a screen. We're going to use words and images and project them onto the stage and all of you.” Even tips his chair back, stretching out his legs. “We don't have a huge budget. So we'll have to use some tricks to make us look more expensive.”

He encourages them to contribute their thoughts and ideas. Isak has none. They go over another chunk of cuts.

“We’ll start read-through's next week,” Even announces with a smile, as if his actors’ possible lack of skill is no big deal. “This means we’ll sit at this table and read through the play, stopping occasionally to answer questions. Don’t worry about interpretation, just get those words in your mouth. We’ll worry about the acting once we’re on our feet. I suggest that you all start getting off-book now, not because I expect you to have everything memorized but because it won’t be natural at first, so the sooner it’s in your heads, the better.”

To Isak, that sounds like a classy way of saying that they’re gonna suck, and that’s fine. Even taps his pencil on the table―three rapid taps.

“Okay everyone, remember that we won’t be rehearsing tomorrow, so enjoy your night off. Rehearsals begin again on Monday. See you then.”

Isak finds that he’s let down by this information, then unsettled that he’s let down. He knew that there was no Friday rehearsal, but somehow he got swept up in Even’s enthusiasm and wanted more of that feeling. The confusion follows him home, and it lingers as he reads the play again, methodically highlighting all of Juliet’s lines even though he doesn't really need to given the plan.

In Biology on Friday, he asks Sana how the rehearsals for _Julius Caesar_ are going. The girls have done six read-throughs since the previous Wednesday and start blocking today after dismissal. When she asks what they’re doing over in ‘R+J world’, he tells her they've only talked and haven't read anything at all yet.

Off of her inquiring eyebrow, he says, “Not like it matters, I’m not going to last in that production anyway.”

“Because you’re a bad actor.”

“Yeah,” Isak falters. “I mean. How did you know?”

“Well, based on everything you’ve been saying, it sounds like you getting cast was a colossal mistake, and I don’t doubt that.”

“What does that mean?”

She sighs. “You never pass on the opportunity to boast, so if you say you’re a shitty actor, then you must be one.”

Isak grits his teeth. “Sana?”

“Hmm?”

Nipples re-enters the room and he lowers his voice, practically hissing. “Why are you fucking with me?”

Sana gives him a cold look. “You know what would be really impressive? If, despite your lack of skills, you manage to stay in the production until the very end. Now I can’t gamble because of my faith, but...”

Isak narrows his eyes. “But?”

“I can barter. Stay in _Romeo and Juliet_ and I'll give you back the other half of the weed you stashed in Eva’s garden like a little bitch.”

She swivels and stares at the board, taking notes as if she hadn’t just dropped a bomb.

“ _You_ have it.”

“I’ll give you a bit for every week you manage to hang on.”

“How? Why? It’s not even mine!”

“Oh good, so it doesn’t matter if you get it back at all.”

“You don’t even smoke. You can’t, right? You’re...”

“Sana and Isak, please share with the class what is so fascinating that you can’t stop talking?”

Sana straightens. “We were discussing the paragraph on fertilization on page 56.”

“Is that right? Isak?”

“It’s fascinating,” Isak calls on his near-photographic memory and deadpans, “-how the fusion of two haploid gametes produces a diploid zygote.”

Even Nipples’ actual nipples seem to stare suspiciously at them both. She moves on with a, “Very well.”

Isak turns to Sana and whispers. “Fine. You’re on.”

He can do this. The plan remains mostly the same. Hang on a little bit longer than previously planned, get all the weed back, then bail.

When classes are done, he makes his way through the courtyard, texting Jonas, until someone grabs his arm. It’s Emma―the first-year girl who was cast as Paris’s page and a member of the Chorus. Isak kissed her at Eva’s party, and knows this was some kind of accomplishment. The crew certainly thought so. He isn’t sure what he thinks, other than that he’ll be more careful next time he leaves school. She crosses her arms, a fierce pink blush spreading high on her cheeks.

“Oh, hey.” Could he sound less enthused? _Do better._ He tries to smile.

“Hi, Isak.”

“What’s up?”

She turns around and looks over to a group of first-year girls, who watch him the way indoor cats look at birds from their window perches. They seem to send telepathic encouragement Emma’s way because she straightens and smiles with more confidence. He takes a step back.

Emma invites him to pregame with her friends later. He tells her he’s hanging out with the squad for a “boys only” thing, and when she begins to suggest they combine their meetups, he pretends he can’t hear her in his rush to go catch an approaching tram.

Blowing girls off is a kind of art, one he’s normally incredible at, but this was a weak performance. He’s going to have to come up with something more believable, before the boys get involved and start asking him what his deal is.

Behind him, he hears Emma call out, “Call me later.” He spins around and salutes. He’ll do no such thing.

She’s a lot, Emma. Pretty, but a lot. Something tells him she won’t be as easy to get around as Sara, who cared more about him being available for chats than actually getting physical. Emma’s much too keen to be easily shaken off. Her eyes shine when she looks at him, like he's a slice of cake she wants a piece of.

Then there's the fact that she’s at rehearsals too.

It’s exhausting, to have to do so much for nothing. It’s like he can’t ever relax and just be anymore. 

At least he’s got nothing going tonight―no money, no plans. He has to figure out how he’s going to pay Mahdi and Jonas for the missing weed, so no smoking, either. Isak texts Eskild to ask if he can borrow money for beer, but no luck, as he’s working tonight. Isak gets on the tram, reading Eskild’s suggestion that he ask Linn, and just as he’s about to reply, there’s a deep voice at his elbow.

“Hi.”

It’s Even. Isak’s disoriented by seeing him outside of Nissen. Cognitive dissonance―like spotting a zebra at a crosswalk. They’re holding onto the same pole, and Isak isn’t short. But next to Even, his tall-kid supremacy is obliterated, immediately putting him on the defensive.

His mind races. Why is Even here, why at this time? Seeing him outside of his usual context has turned a completely commonplace situation into a perilous one. Which is ridiculous, Isak rationalizes, because:

  * This is the tram that Even takes to go home
  * Isak’s seen him here before
  * They just got out of school
  * You hold the pole for balance
  * Eyes are for looking, and he’s allowed to look



There is nothing out-of-the-ordinary about these circumstances.

And yet, Isak is unprepared. “Hi.”

Even grins, his mouth staying open for a bit as if ready to expand into a larger grin. “Headed home?”

His tongue is pink. It matches the undertones of his skin, around his eyes, at the tip of his nose.

“Uh, yeah.”

Isak looks at his phone and watches the ellipsis wave as Eskild writes another _War and Peace_ -length response. He waits for the answer to come through...and waits.

“Plans tonight?” Even asks, still smiling, still hanging off the pole.

“Eh, no.” Isak's failing to act like a normal human being, and _what is happening_ , he’s always been able to wing it. He rallies. “Just chilling alone.”

“What a coincidence. I was doing that, also.” Even pauses, his tongue between his teeth. “Chilling.”

It sounds inexplicably loaded with meaning.

“I bet you don’t have to ask your roommates to buy you beer, though,” Isak mumbles in the direction of his feet.

“No, Isak. I can buy my own beer.”

“Right.” He looks up at Even, then away. “I forgot...you’re over 18.”

“Want some?” Even’s eyes are half-lidded, almost sleepy. Isak gets the distinct feeling he’s being laughed at. It doesn’t bother him, though. He smiles back, hesitantly.

“Want what?”

“Beer. Come on.”

The tram stops, and Even hops off. Isak follows, half a minute behind.

Their destination winds up being Even's apartment. He doesn’t live alone. There are too many jackets and boots in the front hall of the apartment. Isak removes his shoes and trails after him, past a book-filled living room and into a bedroom. Even’s room is sunny, sloppy, and Isak doesn’t know where to start snooping. There are guitars, movie posters, and a box full of what looks like Barbie doll heads. Even finds a joint, distracting him, which they share, passing it back and forth like conspirators.

The wall facing Even’s loft bed is taped with images—photos, and words, and lyrics, and sketches. They take up half of the wall, and the rest is blank and bare.

“It’s my R+J wall. Or as my collaborators call it, The Process. By the time we go to tech, the whole thing will be covered.”

“Wow. What do you do with all these when you’re done with the show?”

Even laughs. “Burn them, of course.”

“Then you’re back to a bare wall.”

“Yes, but there will be another project to fill it back up again.”

Isak steps closer to the wall to look at the pen sketches. Some are cartoons, and some are ink-drawn illustrations. A man at a cocktail party with an Emperor penguin perched on his head, telling a woman holding a wine glass that he thinks he has a migraine. Another, more abstract, shows a head full of curls, a headband of sorts weaving through the crown in a kind of infinity design.

“Did you draw these?”

“Yes.” Even puts his hand on Isak’s arm, briefly, and he turns. “Come.” Even glides over to the window sill, opening the top panes to let the smoke out, and sits.

Isak moves toward Even, but glances back at the images on the wall. They seem like important clues—to the production, to Even himself. And as much as he would like to not give a shit about any of it, there it is, getting bigger by the day―investment. The play is Even, Even is the play and Isak’s beginning to _care_.

What’s the worst that could happen if he stayed in the show, anyway? It’s not as if everyone goes to see these things.

He coughs into his elbow. The idea causes this reaction, not the weed. Then he stares, at Even. That’s not the weed, either. Isak could blame his high, but the high has never made him fearless. Yet with Even across from him, sunlight in his eyes and hair, smoke all around the crown of his head, Isak doesn’t think to be ashamed for staring. He’s not ashamed enough to stop, or pretend it’s something else he’s doing; staring into space, and wishing he could look head-on, and making do with the blur. No, he just does it, keeps doing it, relaxing into the quiet, comfortable moment of regard like it was completely ordinary, completely okay.

For his part, Even gazes back; unblinking, but without his usual smiling focus. The exchange has a lazy charge Isak can’t quite understand, and just like in the cafeteria, he’s the first one to give, looking down at his hands. At the ink smudge on his middle finger, a messy, blue blot.

Someone shouts from the street, and they both crane their necks to look out the window, and Even murmurs under his breath, “Five minutes alone, I’m already on the bone. Plus I-”

“What?” Isak laughs.

Even’s eyes widen innocently as he takes another puff and exhales. “It’s from the song that’s playing. Method Man, from the Wu-Tang Clan. Do you not know who he is?”

“Of course I do. It’s. I thought...” Isak shakes his head.

“No, what were you going to say?”

“Nothing.”

Isak’s mouth opens and he giggles, licking his gums because they’re dry as fuck, and he has no idea how to fill up this silence. Even seems perfectly content to just sit without speaking, smiling like he’s already got all the good things in the world and needs nothing more.

“What kind of music are you going to use for the play? Something like this?” Isak asks, gesturing towards the bluetooth speakers.

“Mmm.” Even exhales, considering. “I don’t know...I’ve been looking at electronica mostly. Hot Chip. You’ve heard?”

“Electronica. Fuck, no.”

Even laughs, his eyes disappearing. “Not for you, then?”

“It’s not my thing.”

“So you’re a hip-hop-only kind of guy, then? I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Aren’t you?” Isak wiggles up to sit straighter.

“What?”

“A hip-hop only kind of guy?”

“Me?” Even raises his eyebrows, smiles. “No. I like variety.”

Isak leans forward, narrowing his eyes. “Variety?”

“Depending on the situation or what I’m in the mood for. Rap, rock, indie-”

“So you’re indecisive, huh?”

“What? No. Classical...” Even laughs, wonderfully warm, and Isak feels like he’s won something.

“It’s okay to admit that you’re inconsistent, _EVEN_.”

“Jazz...”

“Fickle but polite about it, so-”

Even laughs, falling forward to bump Isak’s knee with an elbow, and continuing, “EDM, POP...”

“...so, so dip-lo-ma-tic.” Isak hits the consonants hard for comedic flair, and Even thumps his head back on the window sill, laughing silently.

“Diplomatic,” he echoes, laughter quieting, and they grin at one another.

“So cool. The cool guy.”

Somehow Isak’s ragging on Even becomes praise. The goofy over-enunciation vanishes; stripping his words of comedy. The character bit, totally gone. There’s only his way-too-complimentary-towards-this-particular-boy self―because Even actually _is_ cool. Isak stops and licks his lips, suddenly breathless.

“Nothing touches you.”

Even’s smile flickers. “I have to keep all the animals calm.” One of his freakishly long arms reaches over, and his hand brushes something off of Isak’s shoulder.

“Oh, so we’re animals to you?”

“A little.” Even scrunches up his face into another one of his half-winks, half-shrugs. It’s there, and then it’s gone. “But...so am I. We’re all animals.”

“Well, I’m not dancing to Justin Bieber. So don’t you fucking dare pick that for the party scene.”

And there’s Even’s laugh again. “If you say it like that, I might just have to. See how you handle it.”

“Oh, I’ll be walking. Fuck the credits, fuck Sana. Isak, OUT.”

“Sana?” Even’s eyebrows shoot up in question.

“Eh...” Fuck, Isak doesn’t want to bring her nonsense into this. “She’s a classmate of mine. She, uh, thinks I can’t pull this off.”

“Does she?” Even nods. “Hmm. You're going to prove her very wrong.”

Isak thinks that it isn’t right for Even to have so much unwavering belief in him, when he’s still thinking about how to get out of the play. They don’t know each other. It’s not like it is with Jonas, who’s his best friend, and is supposed to think Isak’s the shit. Even is practically a stranger, and that confidence in Isak feels...unearned.

“How about this, Isak.” Even leans over, resting his hands on his knees. “I will play you all the music I’m considering for the show, but-”

“But?”

Even’s fingers are proper artist digits, long and knobby at the knuckles. He dips forward and pokes Isak in the area right below his clavicle. Then Even leans back, leaving the phantom pressure of his fingers there.

“But, you have to promise to hear me out, and let me explain my vision, no matter how silly the choice might seem. Any song can achieve transcendence in the proper context. Think: _My Heart Will Go On_.”

“Yeah, it’s fucking garbage,” Isak scoffs.

“No-”

“Garbage, with pan pipes. Listening to it makes me wish _I_ was drowning.”

Even’s laugh is joyfully loud but unforced, his shoulders wiggle. It’s so easy to make him laugh.

“Confess, Isak. _Titanic_ may be three plus hours of populist entertainment, but you were moved.”

“No fucking way, _Titanic_ is bullshit.”

“It’s not bullshit. It was love, true love, unexpected, once-in-a-lifetime love.”

Isak frowns, shaking his head. “No. It was an iceberg, struck at velocity and too few lifeboats.”

“Okay, grumpy,” but Even’s smiling as he says it. After one last pass, he stubs out what’s left of the joint, gracefully precise. “So do we have a deal? You’ll hear me out?”

“You won’t change my mind. Some songs are shit, no amount of ‘context’ is gonna change that.”

“I don’t know...I think I have a chance at getting you on my side.”

A phone rings, and they both look at their cells; it’s Even’s.

“Oh shit. Give me a second. I need to take this.”

Isak nods, and Even goes into the hallway. Isak takes the opportunity to head back to the wall, and he reads a piece of paper scrawled with the following: _note about time―he burns with a vivid realness, giving everything a glow. Slow-motion? “Anger is an energy.”_ Next to the words, there are some photos from the first day of rehearsal, printed out on a regular paper with the grainy, pixelated quality of a copy of another copy. In one, David, Nils, and Ulrik, three other third-years he barely knows, make faces. In the background, there’s Jonas and himself. Jonas’s hand is on Isak’s shoulder and Isak looks toward the camera, holding a cup of water. The composition is off; it favors him, even though he’s in the background. His mouth is slightly open.

_Do his teeth really look like that?_

“Are you hungry?”

Isak wheels around towards Even, who reaches past him for the photo. Pulls it away from the wall and straightens it before pressing down.

“I could eat.”

Even nods, still looking at the picture. “You photograph so well.”

“No.”

“You do.”

There’s no trace of Even’s humor when he says that. His face is nearly solemn, and Isak’s default sarcastic response dies before it reaches his mouth.

“Do you know,” Isak stops to cough. “...how to develop photos, and all of that? Or are you just an insta-photographer?”

“Ouch.”

“Valid question.”

“I know my way around a darkroom. I’ve been taking photos since I was a kid. I love the smell, that intense chemical smell, and watching a photo appear slowly.”

“What got you into it?”

“I’m fascinated...by how people look, depending on who is taking the photograph. If the photographer is someone that they care for, then it’s right there on their face―as if they’re unlocked.”

Isak remembers when Even had aimed the camera his way. It took him by surprise, and he’d breathed in sharply. There’s his startlement; in the flare of his nostrils, the uptick of his chin. What confuses him is the smile. He doesn’t recall smiling.

“Unlocked,” he murmurs.

“Yes. It has to be the subject, though. Because photographers fall in love with their subjects all the time, nothing special there, but the subject doesn’t usually love back? So when it happens...well. That's the truest portrait. The best mirror.”

Isak is not _gay_ gay. He wouldn’t in a million years be caught dead flouncing around like Eskild. Or wearing a rainbow tutu, or whatever. But Even’s shoulder is touching his. It’s nothing, a solid press, and yet his heart pounds alarmingly in his chest.

He's tethered to this moment. Isak’s not hyping himself up, or pretending, because it’s real.

It occurs to him that he doesn’t know what to do with real.

Not that Even means anything from the contact. They remain shoulder-to-shoulder while smiling at the photos. Even’s nice. He’s just so nice, to everyone. 

“Come, Isak, let’s have a couple of beers and make something to eat.”

After nixing cheese sandwiches, since Even only has sweaty, left-out-all-day cumin cheese sitting on the counter, they heat up a random assortment of leftovers in the microwave. The kjøttkaker are hot on the outside and near-frozen on the inside, but they finish them anyway, after challenging each other to eat them as if they taste fucking amazing. They fail, mostly, laughing too hard to pull it off. Later, sitting on the floor facing one another, they’re still laughing as Isak tries to impress Even with his repertoire of memorized rap lyrics. Even proves a game, if shit, beat boxer, and Isak keeps fumbling the English, about 80% certain that he’s flat out making up words.

“Just like Shakespeare!” Even says, and Isak knows he’d say anything to keep being this mindlessly silly, his stomach aching from laughter.

Even lowers himself onto his back, hand resting on his chest, and his laughter evens out into something sated and slow. Isak’s phone buzzes with group text notifications, and Isak scans the messages quickly. Emma somehow got a hold of Mahdi’s number looking for Isak, to try and convince them to hang with her and her friends, and they want to know where he’s at. “Why did you lie to her, SHE’S HOT,” and, “Where are you?” He sighs.

Even’s grinning at him, face propped up by his hand. “Did I make you miss something?”

“No,” Isak answers. “What were _you_ planning to do tonight?”

“I was going to do some more research.” Even waggles his eyebrows twice. “Then I was pre-gaming with friends before going to a party in Bislett.”

“Oh. Shit.” Isak sits up fast, looks around the room, and remembers his stuff is out in the front hallway. “Should I go?”

“You don’t have to. I-” Even sits up as well, runs his fingers through his hair. “Cancelled. Don’t really feel like a group hang.”

Even smiles, and then nods once. Isak nods back.

“Okay.”

“Thought we could just keep doing whatever,” Even says, looking down at the floor then up, languorously, with a one-shouldered shrug.

“And the research?”

“We can still do that, no? You’re my lead. You’re the perfect company. We won't be interrupted. My parents are out, so I’m alone.”

 _For the night?_ Isak’s brain supplies way too quickly. He blushes, bringing the phone up to his face to hide it.

“So you live with your parents?” Isak coughs into his wrist, immediately feeling stupid for asking when Even’s just said he does.

Even bites his lip. “Yes.”

“That’s chill.”

“That’s chill,” Even echoes, with a soft laugh.

They get another couple of beers, and Even shares some of his staging ideas. Isak doesn’t completely understand—something about not ignoring the audience and “presentational techniques.” But he gets sucked into Even’s energy regardless, the enthusiastic fold of his body, all elbows and arms. It forces Isak to be still, so that he can take all of that movement in; feel like he’s at the center of it.

Even queues a few more songs on a ‘90s hip-hop playlist, which he put on when they arrived, and Isak watches him nod his head, grabbing that green notepad of his and scribbling furiously.

“Hey. Even.”

“Yes?”

“Why are we spending so much time in rehearsal talking to each other? Shouldn’t we be reading the script? Figuring out where we are supposed to be? What things mean? What the set is and all of that?”

“Well.” Even sways forward, then back on his heels, his manner apologetic. “I think it’s important to make sure that the entire cast is all coming from the same place. I want you all to see what I see, understand how I envision this world, so that once we start making it come alive, we’re all familiar. Immersed.”

“Right.”

“Does that make sense?”

“Yeah. You’re establishing the concept.”

Even grins. “You understand.”

“Nah, it’s cool. I wasn’t challenging you. I just...yeah. I wasn’t sure.”

“I tend to run rehearsal in unorthodox ways. Anytime you have a question about what we’re doing, please ask, Isak. We’re doing this together.”

“So what kind of research did you have planned for tonight?”

“I was going to go deep into the history of rap beefs.”

Isak narrows his eyes. “No.”

“Yes!” Even smiles brightly, nods. Then laughs, big _HA-HA-HA’s_.

“What for?”

“I couldn’t sleep one night thinking about the power of language to brutalize. Rap battles are fights with words, and beefs are what happens when the words aren’t enough.”

“That’s deep.”

Even grins sheepishly. “Are you fucking with me?” Isak shrugs, and Even laughs, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hands. “You’re such a tough audience.”

“Is that why you were asking Mahdi if he could spit? Are you going to have Mahdi and Ragnar do a rap battle onstage? Mahdi will fucking destroy him. Fuck, I could destroy him.” Isak slips into his best high-pitched Eazy-E impression, “Rags Bergheim ain’t shit.”

“Wow. See what I’m talking about? It’s a relevant course of study.”

“If a sucker talks shit, I give him a-” Isak mimes a thrown punch and shouts _Pow!_ “8 ball sipping, the bitches are flipping-”

“Ball sipping? You’re sucking Bergheim’s balls?” Even leans in, his look of faux-concern as ridiculous as everything about him.

“No, what the fuck? Those are the lyrics! It’s about _pool_.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Seriously.”

“No doubt.”

It’s not funny at all, but they’re laughing again. Even pokes Isak in the thigh with the heel of his socked foot.

“Wow, Isak. Thighs of steel.”

“Alright.” Isak rolls his eyes and weakly shoves Even’s foot. “So what were you going to do after your ‘deep dive’?”

“Why air quotes? You keep doing that.” Even side-eyes him, that big stupid smile still on his face. “It is a thing that people say. Do you think it means something sexual?”

“What?? No.”

“First, I,” he lowers his voice obnoxiously. “-‘deep dive’ into rap beefs. Then I was going to watch Nurejev and Fonteyn in Prokofiev’s _Romeo and Juliet_ ballet.”

“Ballet?”

“It’s sick. Listen to this.”

Even scrambles up, and Isak takes the opportunity to stand up as well and stretch a bit, before flopping on the couch under Even’s loft bed. The floor was starting to smart, and the cushions feel like heaven.

Austere, dramatic classical music booms out of Even’s speakers. Isak sits up

Even picks up his phone and presses away with his thumbs, biting his lip in concentration. “It’s called _Dance of the Knights_. It plays during the party section at the beginning.” He hands his phone over to Isak. “Put your number in.”

“Don’t you have it already? From the contact sheet?”

“It’s better if you give it to me,” Even says.

Isak’s name is entered as “Fair Sun”, and Isak shoots Even a death glare. Even blinks back at him innocently.

“Seriously?” Isak types in his number anyway and hands it back. Moments later, he gets an alert.

“It’s a link to the video for _Dance of the Knights_. Next time you’re in the yard at Nissen, play this on your headphones, and use those killer observation skills of yours to watch the action. You’ll see, it’s a dope soundtrack to check out the hierarchies. On par with ‘a crazy motherfucker named Ice Cube’. I promise.”

“Killer observation skills?”

“Yes. You disagree? I've seen you paying careful attention to the things you're interested in.” 

Isak doesn't know what to say to that.

Even talks with his hands, until he catches himself and stills them with objects―a ball, his phone, and now, a pen. He twiddles it between his fingers, moving it to the sharp turns in the music.

“But why ballet?” Isak rubs his nose. “Don’t you think you’re overdoing it with the research?”

“With classical plays, I like to check out other versions, or adaptations, of whatever material I’m working on. Also music, poetry, art that references the work.”

“So you can rip them off?”

“Not rip them off, Isak, _steal_. Reassemble all of those references until it’s an entirely different work of art.”

“Like recombinant DNA.”

“Sure, stoney.” Even smiles, watching him for a moment before continuing. “I love adaptations. Interpretations. Because your way into the story may be someone else’s way into the story. Your Juliet might make someone say, HOLY SHIT, I UNDERSTAND HER NOW, in a way another version might not.”

Isak makes a face. “I don’t think I’m going to inspire anyone.”

“You inspire me, and we haven’t even started.” Even’s spindly fingers play with his hoodie zipper. Isak stares at them, lost. He’s got no riposte, his mouth is dry as sand.

“Don’t underestimate the power of interpretation, Isak.”

“Which _Romeo and Juliet_ character do you like the best?”

“Juliet.”

Isak raises an eyebrow. “You’re singling out Juliet to suck up to me.”

“No, Isak. Juliet has always been my favorite. She’s wiser than Romeo, certainly loves more wisely. Romeo-” Even sits down next to Isak.

“-is an idiot?”

“-is at the mercy of something beyond his control, and I relate to that. But I love Juliet. For many reasons, but mostly because she loves Romeo so purely...and who wouldn’t want to be loved that way?”

“I don’t want anyone to die to prove that they loved me.”

“But I don’t think that’s the reason they do it. I think Romeo understands, at that moment, that without her, there is nothing else to live for. For him, being alive is a burden, one he chooses to distract himself from with romance and newness.” Even stops for a moment to rub his thumb on the corner of his lip. “But Juliet brings light to his melancholy world. She’s smart, beautiful. Real. Won’t marry someone she doesn’t love.” Even smiles. “And she won’t wear a dress.”

“I’m glad we agree on this.”

Even turns his head, the red tip of his hoodie tie between his teeth. “Have you seen any versions of it? One of the movies?”

“I watched the Luhrmann.” Isak doesn’t tell him why.

“Were you moved?”

Isak gives him a look. “Like _Titanic_? I knew they were going to die here too, Even.”

“But were you moved?”

At Isak’s noncommittal shrug, Even purses his lips and narrows his eyes, nodding with something like fondness and humor.

“Okay, maybe I got a little sad. Maybe. Like. I knew how it would end, I expected it, and yet, I was still...surprised when it happened.”

“Ah.” Even turns to Isak, soft and careful. “See, that’s a good trick for us, when we stage this story. In order to believe it, have the audience believe it, we have to think that _this time_ they _won’t_ die. This time, the stars align, and they get away. Romeo arrives when he’s supposed to, having read that now-delivered letter. Juliet wakes up, and they kiss. It’s a good kiss.” Even laughs, and Isak smiles. “They make it.”

“But I thought someone had to die in order for it to be good?”

 _Fuck._ Isak wasn’t supposed to have known that. He prepares to lie his ass off, but Even only opens his mouth, then closes it, looking caught out. He turns his gaze to the wall, the half that’s bare.

“I feel the loss every time I see it.”

Isak thinks that he should touch Even, and he lifts a hand but chickens out, running his fingers through his own hair instead. “So do you think this play is about fate, then? They’re ‘star-crossed’ or whatever?”

“I think it’s just bad luck.” Even turns around and leans his head back, strands of hair tickling the wall. “Any other time, they could have made it. The stars didn’t favor them.”

“Fuck the stars. They don’t know anything.”

“They don’t?” Even bobs his eyebrow, smiling, and slides down from the couch until he’s flat on the floor. He laughs aloud once, rolling his head back and forth. “Fuck the stars.”

“Blaming outcomes on luminous spheres of gas? Bullshit. Blaming it on any so-called greater power is bullshit. Maybe It’s luck, but then it’s the kind that comes from chance, not intervention. And chance...that’s just math. In a parallel universe, Romeo and Juliet made it out of Verona because Shakespeare wrote a comedy.”

“A romantic comedy?”

“Sure.”

Even settles on his side, brows furrowed. There’s a line of birthmarks dotting that long throat. Isak could stare at them all day, learn their placement, so he can still see them when he closes his eyes.

“It’s scary as shit,” Even says, still and serious. “The idea of parallel universes. It terrifies me.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s too big, too much. It means it never stops.”

“What?”

“All this,” Even says, wiggling his fingers in a fluttery gesture, and Isak shuffles down to sit next to him on the floor. It’s quick and thoughtless, and as soon he does, he regrets it because he’s too close.

The fact is, he doesn’t know Even that well, to sidle up to him like this; or rather, Even doesn’t know him, whoever Isak is this week. The confident, don’t-give-a-fuck sneak. The diligent student, the wit, the clown, the master of game. Or the little boy hiding under the covers, who refuses to wake up his parents after a nightmare and would rather stay up all night than admit he's afraid.

Even sighs, long and low. “But not just that. In movies, parallel universes always have this implication, that there’s only one universe that’s right―the prime version. And the rest are all variations that got fucked up because someone didn’t get on a bus. Or didn’t answer the phone in time. Or they got a cool haircut. You know?”

“But that’s movies, though,” Isak laughs. “That’s not life.”

“Parallel universes aren’t life either. It’s a theory.”

“A theory based on probability. Hell of a lot more probable than most of the shit you see in movies.”

“Are _we_ there?” Even looks at Isak’s fingers, tapping on the floor.

“Hmm?” Isak smiles, or tries to. He licks his dry lips.

“You and I?” Even says slowly, pointing first to Isak, then himself. His voice is hushed and soft as Sunday. “The way we are right now? Even and Isak? Are we in a parallel universe?”

“Definitely,” Isak answers―so quickly it burns. “With different versions of us who make different choices. Have different names.”

“You’re a girl named Isa.”

Isak snorts. “And she’s acting in your play and bitching about having to play Romeo.”

“Or she’s playing Juliet and still doesn’t want to wear a dress.”

“Yeah, right,” Isak scoffs.

“A girl might not want to wear a dress, Isak. Let’s not reinforce gender stereotypes.”

Isak laughs, but Even does not. “Oh, you’re serious.”

“As cancer.”

“Fine. Sorry. Shit. Stay woke.”

Even smiles. “So we’re friends, then? Do we know each other? In every universe?”

“Friends? Yeah. Why not?” Isak imagines himself in another universe with another Even. He can't imagine anything much different than this.

“That’s nice. Makes it less scary.”

“There’s bound to be constants.”

Isak stretches on the floor and looks up, reaching his arms up as well, then back, so that his fingertips press against the frame of the sofa.

“Or maybe we’re more than friends.”

 _More._ The word sounds enormous.

Isak can't have big feelings, so he compresses them―makes them small. Tiny hopes lead to tinier disappointments. Keeping with that theme, he counters with, “Maybe the changes are smaller,” and wills himself to look straight into Even’s changeable eyes, deliberate in his redirection. To test the wavering unsteadiness of whatever-this-is. “It’s still you and me, but the differences are almost insignificant.”

The gaze softens. “Like the curtains are a different color.”

“You don’t have curtains.”

Even shrugs. “But I could. In another universe.”

The trees outside still have leaves, but not for long. By the time this play goes up, the trees will be bare, and then there will be no reason for them to meet like this. No reason for Even to look at him like he sees everything Isak is trying to keep hidden.

“Even, what made you see me as Juliet?” Isak glances resolutely at the slats of Even’s loft bed overhead, steeling himself for the answer.

“Your ferocity.”

Isak looks at him in surprise. Even doesn’t elaborate and there’s a weight to the silence that follows; it’s dense and textured. The lamplight on Even’s face highlights how his face shifts from delighted to a wary, watchful stillness, before returning again to that giant, miraculous grin.

“I have curtains...in my apartment.” Isak doesn’t know why he says it; so gently it sounds like an invitation.

“What color are they?” Even bites his bottom lip. “Green?”

“Red.”

“Seriously?” He raises an eyebrow.

“They came with the room. Red velvet curtains. It's like Dracula-red. They're kind of tacky.” Isak shrugs.

“Red curtains,” Even repeats, in a flat monotone of disbelief, shifting where he sits.

“Yes!” Isak laughs, utterly lost.

“Then what are we doing here?”

“What do you mean?”

Even grabs his pen and taps it on the floor, his energy buzzing-bright. “I want to see them. Will you show me?”

“Yeah. What’s the big deal with red curtains?”

Even's grin is incandescent. “You’ll see.” He claps his hands, rubs his palms together furiously, and stands. “Okay. I know what we’re going to do now. We’re going to watch _Hot Fuzz_.”

“That’s not _Romeo and Juliet_.”

“There’s a production of _Romeo and Juliet_ in the film, so it counts.” Even laughs again, gleeful, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Have you seen it? It’s British.”

“No. Do I have to?”

Even nods, and Isak shakes his head. They smile at one another in the half-dark.

“Trust me, Isak. You’re going to love this.”

Isak does. And if he falls asleep, it’s not because the movie is no good. (It’s fucking hilarious.) Or because they started late, too busy cracking the fuck up over Even insisting that they not watch it on a laptop like regular people, but on a big flat screen monitor he rolls out from the closet. Then spends nearly half an hour adjusting the aspect ratio, while cracking terrible jokes in English about seven eating nine. The kind grandfathers make, pure corniness, but he’s so charming, and smells so good when he sits right next to Isak. Like soap, and sugar, and good weed, warm, and Isak just sinks into it, drifts off.

He wakes up close to midnight, gradually, weirdly unpanicked despite the initial unfamiliarity of his surroundings. He’s on the couch again, but there’s a duvet over him, and the TV is still on. Even sleeps besides him, head on his shoulder, all long legs. His blue-socked feet stick out.

Isak should leave.

When he shifts, his nose brushes against Even's cheek. Even wakes up, opening one eye, then the other. “Isak, where are you going?”

“Home. Fell asleep. It’s later than I thought.”

“Stay.” Even reaches for him, voice clouded with sleep.

Isak wants to. He thinks he could fall right back to unconsciousness.

“I can’t.” Isak is fuzzy and cotton-mouthed. His instinct is to wrap his arms around Even and not go, but that’s too fucking weird. Even for someone like Even, who seems nonplussed about everything with his warmth and easy, handsy affection.

Besides, Isak knows why he shouldn’t stay. Sleep here is too comfortable. He might forget himself.

Even watches Isak gather his things while slowly rising to his feet, and stretching those spaghetti arms overhead.

“Stay. I’ll sleep on the couch, you can take my bed.”

Isak tries to picture Even’s long form stretched out over that little two-seater and snorts. “No. You need your bed.”

He shuffles to the front vestibule, and Even follows him like a clumsy shadow―still half-asleep but unerringly close. When Isak’s jacket is on, Even puts a hand on his shoulder.

“How are you getting home?”

Isak looks at his phone. “Tram. I can still catch one. We weren’t out long.”

“Yeah.”

He considers hugging Even. It feels like he should, like it’s the next step in the sequence. One hand holds his phone, the other he shoves in his pocket.

“Goodnight, Even.”

“Goodnight, Isak.”

It’s an autumn cold, not too brisk but unsure; the weather’s caught between cool and kind. The walk does him good, each step toward the station making him more awake. Awake enough to field the texts Even keeps sending...as if he was still alongside, walking Isak there and talking.

Isak gets to the station, and the texts don’t stop. Not too many, just the right amount. Jokes, and pictures, and nonsense. Not like Magnus’s nonsense—it’s teasing and sweet. Almost like.

Flirting.

**EXT. TRAM STOP - NIGHT  
A young man named ISAK waits for the tram and plays with his phone.**

**what?**

**Shhh  
I’m doing voiceover narration.**

**lol**

**He forgot his headphones at home.**

**I never forget my headphones**

**ISAK puts on his headphones, which he never forgets, and presses play. “Like Smoke” by Amy Winehouse feat. Nas starts to play.**

**The tram comes.**

**it did come  
how did you do that? spooky**

**(I’m the director of my own life)**

**and mine too now, the fuck**

**I never wanted you to be my man  
I just needed company  
Don't want to get dependent on  
Your time or who you spend it on  
I lose it when you love me  
Like smoke**

**...**

**ISAK gazes out the window as the track plays. CLOSE-UP on his serene face.**

**ha ha ha**

**He opens his mouth and blows air on the glass, obscuring his reflection, then draws a heart in the condensation.**

**I would never fucking do that Even**

**His smile is small and secretive. The track fades.**

**this “movie” is pretentious as shit**

**“Movie”? Are you implying this is a porno? Isak, I’m shocked at your insinuation.**

**???**

**No dicks will be sucked in the making of this film.**

***sends gif of Jim Halpert looking straight at the camera***

Even sends him a link to the Amy Winehouse song on YouTube, and Isak hits play. It’s a short ride. The song ends just as he’s climbing up the stairs to his front door.

**Somewhere in Bjølsen, another young man, EVEN, is wondering if his friend made it home. Not in a mom way, though.**

**Because that’s not cool (or collected) and he is both those things. Or so he has heard.**

**yes I’m at my place**

***thumbs up emoji***

**you are actually an old grandpa  
who asks people if they got home okay**

***sends photo of a dolphin saying bish in tiny yellow font***

**lmfao  
I had to zoom in**

**Thanks for coming. I had fun.**

**me too**

**Let’s do it again soon.**

***thinking face emoji***

**No? Ha ha ha. What did I do?**

**chill  
next time you hang out here  
for the red curtains**

**isak**   
**so lucky you’re my juliet**   
***two red heart emoji***

Isak grins, without any of the fear he’d normally expect to feel.

He brushes his teeth, gets into bed, and hugs his blue pillow tight, pushing his forehead into it until he finds the exact angle. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thinks he should be more worried about tonight. How his blood runs like he’s about to get sick, how his smile won’t go away. But he wants to hold on to this feeling of rightness, and not poke at it as if it’s something to be suspicious of.

Why isn't he afraid? It's like his heart doesn't know how.

The hoodie stays on over his head because it’s cold in his room. The cotton still holds some of the smells from this afternoon on it, and the memory of all that warmth. Which means Even; Even who thinks there’s a science to heating up leftovers, and is beautiful.

His phone doesn’t get charged because Isak falls asleep with it in his hand, thumb placed over Even's last message and those red hearts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> songs for this chapter are:
> 
>  _Fade Away_ by Susanne Sundfør  
> (Google stalking)  
>  _Feather_ by Little Dragon  
> (first rehearsal)  
>  _Controlla_ by Drake  
> (the tram)  
>  _I'll Be There For You/You're All I Need To Get By_ by Method Man and Mary J. Blige  
> (the windowsill)  
>  _Lose It (feat. Vic Mensa)_ by Flume  
> (the hang montage)  
>  _Like Smoke_ by Amy Winehouse and Nas  
> (a short film movie about a good night/outro)  
>   
> soundtrack can be listened to **[here](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLWfM4lhzgKQWns3CZDlp5Y_NFhjrQyaVI)**


	3. Swear not by the moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When they read together, Even uncrosses his legs and wiggles in an anticipatory way, grinning widely, and Isak almost acts. He wants to, but he can’t. His heart is beating too fast, his voice is tight and cracking, and this is what stagefright is, it must be. Isak can’t stop jiggling his leg under the table. At the end of the scene, Even puts his hand on Isak’s knee. And leaves a post-it there.
> 
> _breathe_ , it reads.
> 
> Isak inhales, letting the air fill his lungs to bursting, then breathes out slowly. He leaves the post-it on his knee until it’s time to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see end notes for mild canon-adjacent content warnings

The sunlight coming in through the windows is warm on Isak’s face, and he shuts his eyes to keep himself apart from his surroundings. For the past few days, he hasn’t stopped thinking about last Friday at Even’s, trying to sort out the fantasy from the reality. Sitting on the windowsill, blurry with smoke and laughter. Even and his endless legs. That sharp canine. 

Isak imagines Even in his biology textbook. An arrow pointing to his eyes like a diagram. Iris, pupil, cornea, blue, black, white, showing only the faintest hint of pink in the scleras. A boy, the perfect specimen.

Sana taps the textbook between them with her pen and Isak sits up, answers her question, then slowly zones out again. Slumping down in his seat to more thoughts of Even and his low, charming laugh.

The memories can’t be right, though. They’re too golden-lit, too sweet. The more time Isak spends going over the details of their time together, the less probable it all seems. That this boy, that he likes, might like him back.

It’s wishful thinking.

But still.

The press of their thighs when they sat on the couch, Isak too high or tired to move, was real. He loved having the excuse to be that close, without fear of discovery.

The whole evening had felt like being discovered; himself, through someone else.

Isak should be happy, then, that he’s made a new friend.

During the usual lunchtime chaos, Isak frowns and rubs his eyes, turning towards the boys, who are discussing possible end-of-week plans. Vilde comes over to tell them about some theatre fundraiser, and Isak pointedly pulls his script out and turns the volume up on his music. Then, as if this were a movie and the beat was a cue, everything blurs, stills, and refocuses; and there’s Even, coming into view. Isak tracks Even’s progress across the courtyard; a cigarette behind his ear, beneath his perfect hair. Isak almost wishes that this could be a film, so he could watch it again later; pause it at the exact moment where it looked like Even might have been staring his way.

The world speeds back up at the sound of one of Penetrators II dudes and another guy, who's also in the R+J cast, shouting past. The two of them, third-years Emil Andersen and Hiro Hogstad (who play Sampson and Gregory, respectively) stop when they see Isak and _bow_. Then they’re off again.

Isak looks at Jonas. “What the fuck was that?”

“They’re your servants. Remember what Even said? We’re respecting the hierarchy and our allegiances outside of rehearsal, whenever possible. To get it in our minds and bodies.”

Isak laughs. “I didn’t think anyone was actually gonna do it.”

He glances around the yard and makes eye contact with a few other cast mates, who nod at him deferentially. It’s subtle, but it’s there, and the realization brings a fierce rush of power.

_Dance of the Knights_ plays in one ear.

“Wow.”

“Yeah, Ragnar isn’t even hanging on Bille anymore.”

“No.”

“For real.” Jonas nods and laughs. “I think Bille is depressed now that he has no lackey.”

“Maybe it’ll improve his acting.”

Mahdi cackles, then stops almost immediately. He frowns at Isak and goes back to talking with Vilde.

“What's his deal?” Isak lowers his voice. “I didn't want to tell Emma that my mom-”

“No, it's not that.”

“Then what? I told him I was working on getting the weed back.”

Jonas raises his eyebrows, which Isak immediately understands, since he speaks fluent Jonasbrows.

“Because he’s a _Montague_?! Oh my God.” Isak laughs and rolls his eyes. “I mean, this is all cool, I guess. But it’s kind of weird that suddenly everyone is so into drama. It’s just a fucking play.”

“Dude, it isn’t just that, though.” Jonas shrugs. “Even’s a solid guy. He takes this seriously, and it makes you want to take it seriously.”

“Really?” Across the yard, Even leans by the wall talking to Emil and another member of the cast, Tore. Even’s got his sunglasses on now; the picture of cool. Isak bites the inside of his cheek. “How do you know he’s a solid guy? Are you friends now?”

“Well, yeah. We were texting about music the other night, then politics, and he was making me understand ways I could use that for Friar L. We’re reading him as this former radical hippie stick-it-to—”

“Friar _L_? Really?”

“What?” Jonas laughs, shoving Isak back. “I’m kind of into this now. Don’t be jealous. You’re still my best friend.”

“I’m not jealous,” Isak scoffs.

Mahdi turns to them. “You talking about Even? That guy is mad cool.”

“Fuck you both, Even is mine!” Magnus crows, raising his arms over his head. “I met up with him and his hot friend who is doing costumes, and I’m getting a fat suit, bitches! FAT SUIT! Give me that Oscar. The award for best supporting fat suit in a school play goes to...MAGNUS FOSSBAKKEN.”

The guys continue to talk about Even like he’s a rock star, and Isak looks over his shoulder to see if he’s still there, across the yard. He’s not.

“You’re still regretting your life?” Jonas asks.

“No, it’s all good. I’m just. I gotta go.”

After his last class, he doesn’t go back to the apartment, he goes to McDonald’s and does his homework for an hour. He returns to Nissen for rehearsal and sees Even on one of the benches outside, smoking and laughing with Bille. Isak thinks he’s seen Bille smile twice, and both times were the day after a match. It was ultra-fucking weird then. It’s not any less weird now, as Bille’s smile never leaves his face, and Even puts his arm around him.

Rehearsal is equally confusing. Even instructs the cast to conduct a fast read-through of the play and not worry about inflection or interpretation; just say the words as quickly as possible, so they can get to the end. Isak fumbles his way through monosyllabically, barely modulating his voice. He knows what he’s saying, he’s figured out the meaning of Juliet’s speeches, but he doesn’t want anyone to think he’s any good. The speed-through lets him off the hook, but even not trying, he's shaking. There are so many words, all of them his. So many feelings he’s supposed to invoke. 

There are some unexpected surprises. Despite the warp speed, his boys acquit themselves well, with Mahdi managing to milk laughs out of his scenes with Bille. That tall, red-headed clown, Gregard Kjørstad, who plays Old Capulet, is a surprisingly strong dramatic actor. Jens Øverjordet, who plays Lady Capulet, matches him in confidence, if not natural talent. Together, they’re intimidating. It makes Isak want to fight back and best them both. Which he does, handily. This is both good―their faces afterwards are a priceless picture of shock and, in Gregard's case, respect, and bad, in that Isak forgot he wasn't supposed to impress. During a break, Even invites Gregard and Jens outside for a smoke, and Isak almost follows them out. He sits on his hands instead, headphones on, pretending to study the script. He’s pointedly avoiding looks from Emma, who doesn’t approach, but watches him from her huddle with her two friends, the only other girls in the production. The cluster of them, stubborn in his peripheral vision.

Before rehearsal’s end, Magnus bursts out with his usual dumb questions, questions which Even answers with a kindness that Isak wouldn’t have the patience to summon. Isak snaps his pencil in half and tucks the halves behind each ear. He makes a point of waiting in the hall bathroom for ten minutes and avoiding the group tram ride. Isak exits the double doors and finds Even outside, smoking. He approaches him.

“Hi, tough night?” Even asks.

“Didn’t get much sleep, sorry.”

Even nods slowly, as if his explanation makes sense. “How are you getting home? Tram?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t. We’ll ride together, I’ll drop you off.”

Isak hates sitting on the bike rack. Hates it, hates it.

“Yeah. Cool.”

Once they’re on their way, there’s no looking at the city. Even keeps standing to pedal and Isak just tries to hold on, not stare too much. But he fails. There’s a corner of Even’s jean jacket that has a burn on it―a small circle, like from a cigarette.

They pass a row of restaurants near the Kollektiv, and Isak inhales the scents of Vietnamese food that used to signify Mondays when Mamma didn't want to cook and they'd order from a place closer to his old neighborhood. It’s Tuesday tomorrow. It’ll be Tuesday forever. He doesn’t want to go home. The rack is uncomfortable as fuck, but he’d put up with it if it meant escape.

He laughs out loud and Even grins back at him.

The past couple of days, Isak’s had so many daydreams about running away. Is it because he’s playing Juliet? Probably. Too-smart Juliet, who wants to keep her Romeo by her side, and doesn’t want a life without him. He thinks he gets it. There’s something to being like this, with Even, that isn’t like being with anyone else. Not even Jonas. 

There’s a foolproof system to finding out if the coast is clear at home. Noora may have moved out, but she still comes by most nights. So first, Isak texts her―to ask if she’s with Eskild. In her reply (and she always replies) she tells him that she’s hanging at her place, along with some of the other girls from _Julius Caesar_ ; she confirms that Eskild’s working tonight, selling socks at some street market, then going out after. After that, he texts Eskild, and after some rambling, he confirms he’s where Noora says he is. Linn? Well, she never comes out of her room, so, non-starter.

Tonight, Isak made sure to find all this out before they left Nissen, while Even was getting his bike―operating on the assumption that Even would want to come up.

Isak might be the director of his own life, too.

He holds the building door open and nods at Even. Even answers by locking up his bike then brushing past him to go inside, walking right up the stairs as if he’s been there before. Isak struggles to remember what he’s told him about the place. _Nothing_ , he thinks. His palms sweat.

Isak leads Even right into his room, and he walks around slowly, taking in the sparseness before approaching the window and smiling at Isak's red curtains.

“Are you going to tell me what’s with you and the red curtains?”

Even bites his lip and squints, tilting his head to the side. “Yes.”

Isak waits. Even touches the material gingerly with his long fingers. The only sound in the room is their breathing; Isak finds himself trying to blend his with Even’s, to make it less loud.

“Why do you think Juliet uses a knife?”

Isak blinks. “Because there’s not enough poison on Romeo’s lips.”

“It sounds beautiful when you put it like that.” Even turns from the window, and he looks grave and familiar, like an angel in a prayer book. The small part of Isak that’s still cowed by those things feels a muted terror at the sight. He was always helpless against Mamma’s stories. This feels no different. Because if an angel were to appear in his bedroom, bringing earth-shattering news, wouldn’t it look like Even?

Even’s eyes seem more gray than blue today. He takes his phone out of his pocket, flips it in one-hand smoothly and holds it up, nodding at Isak. Isak nods back and Even takes a photo. The camera noise is loud in the room. Even looks at the image on his screen.

“According to studies, women choose softer means of suicide than men. Pills, gas. Men prefer guns and hanging, jumping from buildings or bridges.”

Isak swallows down a sudden pang of anxiety. “That’s morbid.”

“It’s only numbers.” Even’s low voice softens, his eyebrows knitting. “Data and statistics. You’re a scientist, Isak. You know the value of research.”

“That’s...I don’t like thinking about that.”

Even nods, putting his phone away, his fingers back on the curtains. “I had an aunt I loved very much who killed herself.”

Once again, Isak raises his hand; but unlike before, he makes immediate contact with Even’s shoulder. His thumb aligns with the bones there―clavicle, acromion. He’s come closer to Even without thinking about it.

“It was not a soft death.” Even inhales with a tiny shake of his head.

It would be wrong to embrace, but that almost doesn’t matter. The instinct to protect is acute. Isak wishes he could do so with just his arms, his small words.

“I’m sorry.”

Even turns quickly, and Isak loses his hold, stepping back to put more space between them. Even lopes closer, undoing Isak’s efforts with a stretch of his long neck, the forward jut of shoulders.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Isak.”

“Okay.”

He widens his eyes. “Fuuuuck. So serious, right? Boners! Bunny rabbits! Bunads! Your turn!”

Isak shakes his head. “What?!”

“Quick! Things that are funny.”

“Oh. Umm.” Isak racks his brain. “The Chappelle Show.”

“Yes! Go on.”

“Bille’s acting.”

Even clutches his chest. “Oof. So mean.”

“You’re laughing.”

“One more. Come, you should be better at this, Isak Valtersen.”

Those lips says his name like it's a private joke and Isak forgets himself. “Your smile.”

“My smile,” Even repeats flatly.

“Yeah,” he shrugs, widening his eyes. “It’s ridiculous.”

“My smile is funny to you?” Even’s quoting again, or must be; otherwise, why switch to English. “What am I, a clown? Do I amuse you?”

There’s no answer to give, so Isak smiles stupidly, despite himself. “You think boners are funny?”

“Sometimes.” Even winks. “Don’t you?”

Isak doesn’t think boners are funny at all, especially his own, or the thought of Even’s. It’s one-hundred-percent serious and not something to even start thinking about. Particularly now. He swallows thickly.

“So do you want to read through a scene?”

“No.” There’s a heaviness to Even’s answer. He steps toward Isak, looking at his feet, up his legs, chest, neck and face, where his gaze lands like a caress. “You have a hole in your sock.”

“I do?”

Even moves closer. Isak steps back and trips on his feet, nearly falling back on his bed. Even’s fast, though—faster than he looks—grabbing Isak’s arm and pulling him forward before he can.

Isak pants, sheer adrenaline, and Even holds him by the wrist. They’re both looking down, at the point of connection. Even’s hand is gentle, and the hairs on his arm are fine and nearly-white. Isak’s head drops forward a little, and to the side. As if he’d like to rest his cheek there, close his eyes.

A chiming ringtone peals, and Even digs into his pocket and pulls out his phone, jostling Isak in the process; the rush of movement shimmers through him. Even looks at the notification and sighs. “Sorry. I have to go. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

He’s gone before Isak can walk him out or ask him what it was that he wanted to do instead of read. Isak’s agitated but bone-tired. He lies down on the bed and puts both his hands on his chest, to muffle the boom, and bring the room back to quiet. Only the quiet doesn’t come. Outside, cars pass. The sound of the shower starts, followed by meditation music from Linn’s room, as she, presumably, tries to relax also. Eventually, the music fades. Then there’s silence.

Isak never thinks about death. It seems pretty pointless to waste time on things we don’t know anything about. There’s no testimony, no proof, only hopes and wishes for something better. Besides, why would he have to worry? He’s never lost anyone he really loved. He’s never had cause to know.

His phone buzzes with notifications from the boys’ group chat. He gets sucked into one of Magnus' random logic discussions, mainly to push thoughts of Even to the back of his mind. How it felt that he’d said something important, but Isak missed the meaning. Somehow, his eyes grow heavy, and he goes under, folded into a dream that he knows is a dream because Even is there; and while he’s not smiling, they’re sitting next to one another. Even’s hand covering his; finger-to-finger, wrist-to-wrist.

* * *

Getting more than six hours of sleep doesn’t make Isak any more of a morning person. He eats breakfast, makes sure his socks match. He’s actually awake during the tram ride and thinks he was better off being asleep half the time. There’s a sour quality to the other passengers. No one is going where they want to go. The only smiles come from a redheaded baby with bright blue eyes, which babbles and reaches for him with pudgy rubberband wrists. Isak ignores its bobbing head and drooling smile, turning up the music until he can’t hear anything but the solid bass thud. Even sent him another song last night, while he slept. Naughty By Nature’s _Feel Me Flow_. It’s dope, and if he winds up grinning back at the baby, it’s entirely by accident.

Classes kick his ass. Jonas covers for him in Norwegian, when Isak doesn’t recognize the reading and gets called on mid-daydream. Honestly, who fucking cares about _The Ice Palace_? Can’t they read something that’s less depressing?

Jonas whispers from his left. “There’s a dance chicks audition during lunch. Come with?”

Isak wants to turn his feelings into fresh scraps of blank paper, so he can crumple them with his fists, shove them in his mouth, and spit them back out.

“Isak?”

“Yeah, sure.”

It’s exactly as expected. The boys are in heaven, and he’s far away. That is, until he sees Even pass the entrance to the gym. Their eyes meet, and Isak sits up to wave him over. Even’s gone before he can even lift a hand.

Rehearsal can’t come quickly enough.

Since he’s always been great at memorization, Isak is nearly off-book even though he won't need to be once he's been re-cast or whatever. He creates more flashcards anyway; trades off between eukaryotic cells, and bounty that’s ‘as boundless as the sea, my love as deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite’ blah blah blah. He gets it. There’s a connection between the two, certainly; love and biology—eternal consequences of one another.

Tonight, only Romeo and Juliet read their lines in the dance studio, the rest of the cast has the night off. It's just Even, their new stage manager Chris Berg, Bille and Isak.

Bille isn't any better at a slower pace than he was at the speed-through. He reads all his lines flatly, while running his hands through his hair. Isak can’t help the roll of his eyes.

Chris calls a fifteen minute break and motions Bille over to discuss scheduling. Isak feels Even at his back and turns around. Even shakes his head minutely and leans in to whisper, “You’re going to have to act first, show him how it’s done. He won’t be the one to start.”

Isak tries. He really does. Bille, visually, looks like a Romeo. He is a handsome dude. The sort of handsome all boys acknowledge as handsome, and no one thinks it’s gay to say so. He’s tall, squared-jawed, athletic. A star athlete. Slightly intense but quiet, clean. He doesn't look like he's in high school at all, he looks like a man. His casting makes sense, but the more Isak thinks about having to act like he’s in love with Bille, the more uncomfortable he feels. Because Bille’s the kind of guy rumors don’t stick to. He’s above it―and he’s not even trying. He can do nothing as Romeo, invest not a single emotion, and everyone will buy it.

So Isak can’t make the performance feel real, in the end. He’s not going to kill himself for this guy.

They read the Holy Palmers scene, and it is unbearable. As he reads, Bille underlines each word with his index finger, and Isak mimics the turgid, too-careful cadence in all his volleys until Bille stops. Closes his book. Grabs his bag and leaves. It’s as smoothly unruffled as everything else he does, which makes it almost seem normal. Even follows after. The room is quiet, stretched-out quiet, the studio door swings shut slowly enough to become comedy.

“Okay, bye!” Isak slams his book on the table. “Shit.”

Chris looks just as confused, chewing her gum with an open mouth. “Are they coming back?”

“Did you hear them saying anything to me?”

She widens her eyes and looks down. 

Isak sighs. “Sorry. I didn't mean...I’m just pissed off.”

A minute drags by, then two. Chris starts to go through her calendar and makes a soft _huh_ sound. “Do you know why Bille has to skip so many rehearsals?”

“No,” Isak says, sharp. “Should I?”

“Neither do I. But I just started so Even hasn't told me everything yet.” She shrugs, taking the gum out of her mouth, stretching it like taffy, then curling it around her tongue. “You want to run your lines?” Chris looks through the script pages in her black binder. “Which scene do you want to do?”

“Can we do the scene with Friar Laurence? Thanks.”

Her gum bubble is enormous and blue, and when she pops it with a snap of her mouth, some remains on the corner of her lip. Her phone buzzes, and she looks at it.

“That’s Even. They’re not coming back. So we can run lines until whenever.”

Isak nods, trying not to wonder where Even went, if he's with Bille back to his apartment. Slapping each other on the back, being bros or whatever, while Isak sits here with Chris Berg, like an idiot. “Okay, until 20 then?”

Chris nods and smacks her gum again, licking at the bit stuck on her face until she gets it all. Isak stares at her progress until she notices him looking. Then she smiles.

“Want some gum?”

Worried that she’s going to offer him the piece in her mouth, Isak declines.

Later, at home, a text comes in at 23.23. Isak has been sitting on the couch playing a dumb free video game, which he can’t bring himself to delete from his phone, precisely because of moments like this. Moments when mindless, quiet activity is preferable to sleep.

**Tonight was a loss  
Better tomorrow, yes?**

**sure  
sorrt if I was a dick  
*sorry**

**I’d send you a photo of Bille crying but I think it would just goad you**

**seriously?**

**No, he didn’t cry  
But I’m right  
He won’t start trying until you show him how it’s done**

**why do I have to carry him?**

**Because that’s what Juliet does  
Juliet carries Romeo on her back**

**don’t agree**

**Good  
But tell me why**

**I’ll tell you when bille starts understanding what he’s saying  
or makes an attempt to fucking understand  
or  
I don’t know  
try**

Even sends him another song. It’s a bit shit. Isak tells him so.

**dont like it**

**Oh it's so good  
we're going to use an instrumental version for your dance with Paris**

**ugh don't remind me**

**Ha ha ha  
Night, isak  
*kiss emoji***

Blood rushes to Isak’s face, and he flips his phone over, then back up, down again. He brings it back up one last time, and the emoji seems to wink.

* * *

Once Isak comes to terms with three very important facts:

  * acting isn’t hard (in fact, he’s kind of a genius at it)
  * he’s still acing his classes despite rehearsals
  * his 10% absentee limit is definitely going to be 15%, thanks to his new preferred student status



Then rehearsal starts being kind of fun, even outside of being with Even. It’s not going to be such a chore to hang on for another week or two.

Not that he’s admitted his plan to anyone―least of all, Jonas, whom he avoids like the plague during rehearsal. His best friend has always come closest to seeing through Isak’s bullshit, and he knows that Jonas has questions about his recent elusiveness. How he stayed late after Monday's rehearsal, doesn't text the boys nearly as much and checks his phone constantly without explaining why. Jonas is starting to get that sharp-eyed look, his eyebrows becoming more aggressively inquisitive than usual, and Isak is running out of excuses.

Then there’s Emma, eagerly sidling up to him in the hallways; his avoidance techniques are not strong enough for her to get the hint. Luckily for him, there isn’t much rehearsal-overlap with her, though she texts him constantly. And he does an excellent job of seeming like an aloof, distractible jerk, instead of a deliberately-evasive one. He can’t shut her down completely. Isak needs her, to keep the guys off his back and other things. He hates that.

In Bio, Sana and Isak finish the partner quiz ahead of everyone else and spend the rest of the time comparing rehearsal notes. Sana says Eva is a decent actress but struggles with her lines. Noora is a bit too cerebral. The rest of the cast is fine, she supposes with a sigh, but Sara shouldn’t be acting in the show and directing. Most of her directorial choices are done via group chat. She doesn’t have the focus or the skill. When Isak agrees, Sana frowns at him, waiting for him to elaborate. Just to be a jerk, he doesn’t.

“But how are _you_ doing?”

Sana raises one of her perfectly-styled eyebrows. “I’m excellent, of course.”

“Of course.”

“I hear you’re not that great.” Her smirk is pronounced.

Isak laughs. “Bullshit. I’m IT. Don’t you worry.”

“I’m not worried. I just want to make sure that you honor the terms of our agreement.”

“Yup. By the end of the week, you’ll have to cough up this week’s portion.”

“Will I?”

Sana’s all black-and-white―the way she is, thinks, dresses. Her statements, and arguments, are always brisk and concise. Her autumn-pale skin, the lipstick she wears―a deep, blue-tinted red. The black eyeliner flips up at the corner of her eyelids, framing those dark, liquid eyes. He thinks about her hair, how it must be black too, under her hijab, and he wants to ask her who is allowed to see it. But that’s a stupid question, and he hates looking stupid.

“It’s not about the agreement. I am the best. Who says I’m not?”

“How’s Even doing?”

Isak stalls for time by pretending his attention is caught by someone passing in the hallway. “Why do you ask? Do you even know him?”

“No.” She turns to their test and straightens it on the corner of her desk, tracking Nipples’s progress across the room. “But I’m curious. He’s a new student. It’s quite a responsibility.”

“I guess. He’s good. People like him.”

“What do you think?”

He frowns. “What do you mean? He’s...he’s a theatre nerd. I don’t know. He’s fine.”

Seemingly satisfied with his answer, Sana hands their test to Nipples, gifting their teacher with a quick close-mouthed smile. Isak doesn’t bother.

The production gains a choreographer/movement consultant—Maja Hafskjær, a third-year who wasn’t cast in the annual dance showcase, but was expected to choreograph it anyway. According to David Furevold, who might be a bigger gossip than Vilde, the dance mafia told her she had to lose weight and drop a bra size if she wanted to be onstage with them.

“Can you imagine? It’s so wrong,” Magnus whispers, with what looks like tears in his eyes.

She opted to cut ties entirely; and somehow or other, Even, who’s currently whispering in her ear at the front of the room, convinced her to join their production.

Mahdi nods. “Those dance chicks are crazy. But their loss is our gain, or maybe Even’s. Dude is smooth as hell with the ladies. Look at him.”

“Love connection,” Magnus whispers.

Even grins at Maja and laughs, leaning that long neck forward, hands in his pockets; and she laughs too, as if he’s the most hilarious person she’s ever met in her ballet-lovin’ life. Isak flips through his script. “Is this rehearsal ever going to fucking start?”

It does, and Isak regrets having wished it. Maja puts on some ridiculous Enya-like music over the rehearsal room loudspeakers and leads everyone through a “movement exercise”, which Isak struggles to not turn into a massive eye-rolling event. They move around the space in slow-motion; and whenever they encounter another person, they are asked to react as their characters would by making a “movement choice”. Magnus opts to smother Isak against his chest; first picking him up, then nearly dropping him, and passing him off to a stone-faced Ragnar as if he were a delicate damsel. Neither boy is prepared for Isak’s height and weight, though he wonders if he isn’t making himself heavier by imagining himself as dense as a moon rock, incapable of the lightness required—here to make things difficult for everyone. On and on it goes, until he finds himself standing in front of Even, who smiles serenely and points at his shirt pocket; a post-it stuck there says in block letters: Romeo.

Bille isn’t in rehearsal. Isak had noticed/not noticed. That is to say, his brain acknowledged Bille’s absence and immediately dismissed it, not wanting to consider the possibility that he’s not present because of their last rehearsal. Here’s Even though, taking his place, lifting his brows and waiting.

They’re supposed to move, but they’re not moving, and it isn’t until Even tilts his head that Isak feels himself do the same, like a mirror on a time delay. This leads to laughter, then smiles, then nothing at all. Not a blank moment—it’s too focused for that―but curious, maybe, and delicate. Romeo lifts his hand, Juliet does too; but before their palms can touch, someone grabs Isak by the waist and pulls him away.

They speed-read through the party scene, and Even is somehow off-book for Romeo, barely looking down at his script. Each line, as he speaks it, makes sense; he understands the meaning, but he doesn’t seem to be trying. He fixes his calm blue gaze on every single person that speaks, and listens to them with what looks like kindness. Several times, Isak misses his own cue because he’s too busy looking at Even’s face. Which he’s allowed to do, here, because everyone is.

It’s nice.

When they read together, Even uncrosses his legs and wiggles in an anticipatory way, grinning widely, and Isak _almost_ acts. He wants to, but he can’t. His heart is beating too fast, his voice is tight and cracking, and this is what stagefright is, it must be. Isak can’t stop jiggling his leg under the table. At the end of the scene, Even puts his hand on Isak’s knee. And leaves a post-it there.

_breathe_ , it reads.

Isak inhales, letting the air fill his lungs to bursting, then breathes out slowly. He leaves the post-it on his knee until it’s time to go.

* * *

“You know, even half-paying attention to everyone else and taking notes, Even is a much better Romeo than Bille.“ Jonas takes a bite from his apple, juice runs down his chin. “Maybe Bille will quit, and Even will take over.”

Isak grunts at Jonas. He’s eating another roll at lunch, his throat is too dry to swallow, so he chews and chews and waits for it to break down and liquefy. The food in the cafeteria today has a congealed look to it; the cheese is nearly plastic, and the meatballs are gray-tinged. Bread is Isak’s safest option.

Across the room, Sana stares at him with her dark eyes. He shrugs and makes a face, _what_ he mouths silently. Her eyes dart to the side, and Isak follows her gaze to Emma, who also stares at him. She perks up when their eyes meet and waves. Isak attempts a half-assed wave and looks back at Sana, who is smiling now, because she loves his suffering more than anything in the world, clearly.

“What’s going on with you?”

Isak groans “Sana’s such a bitch. She thinks it’s fucking hilarious that Emma chick is stalking me.”

“Emma?” Jonas turns around just as Isak murmurs for him not to turn around.

“Dude. Could you be more obvious?”

“I’m not sure what the problem is. Emma is beautiful. She looks like Natalie Portman in _V for Vendetta_.”

“She gives me clingy vibes.”

“What?! She’s beautiful and is into you, dude. How is that clingy?”

“Well, I’m not that into her,” Isak shrugs.

“You’re in a mood. What’s up with you at rehearsal? Is this about Even?”

Isak coughs, violently, for what seems like a thousand years, but is really only half a minute. Jonas walks around the bench and slaps him on the back.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I think I’ve been smoking too much.” Isak takes a swig of his soda. “What do you mean, Even?”

“Is he stressing you out about Bille?”

“Why...why would he be doing that?”

“Bille’s mom is sick or something, but she’s in Denmark, so he’s going to be out some weeks of rehearsal.”

“But he’s Romeo? Why would he even do the show if he’s got that family stuff going down?”

“I don’t know. Some deal he made with Even and the Headmistress. He’s in Skagen, that's where his parents are from.”

“Huh.”

“So I heard you were giving Bille a hard time. Did Even lecture you about it?”

Normally, Isak would lie. He’d look at his best friend and say something like, _yeah, he’s the king of stress_. But it’s so far from the truth, he can’t even try. Even doesn’t seem worried at all, despite how shit he’s been in rehearsal. Even always treats Isak as if he knows what he’s doing.

“He’s chill.”

Jonas nods. “Want to come over after school? You don’t have to stay tonight, right?”

“Nah. Why? You dying to get your ass kicked at FIFA again?”

“Never, asshole.” Jonas laughs. “But I invited Julian Dahl over, too.”

“Julian Dahl? That walking glass of milk? Why?”

“I think he needs friends.”

Julian sits across the cafeteria in his usual black wool coat, pushing his dirty blonde hair back nervously and pouring a packet of sugar into a cup of coffee...no, tea. He pulls a tea bag out of the cup carefully, as if he were removing a squid out of a tank, and places it on a stack of napkins; then goes back to his book, some tome about World War II. Isak scrunches up his nose.

“Do we really need new friends?”

Jonas smile-frowns at him. “Doesn’t everyone?”

They don’t know much about Julian, other than that his parents are loaded, and he lives in a triplex that Magnus visited once. He started at Nissen at the same time they did and says hi in class, leaves comments on their instas, has awkward-as-fuck conversations at parties—the usual stuff people do, when they’re too socially inept to make connections but want to be known. Julian doesn’t seem bothered to sit alone, though. Isak sees him in the hallways sometimes, sitting on the floor reading a Knausgård novel, a perfectly good chair standing, ignored, at his side.

It jars Isak momentarily that he’s never really been friendless. Since they were kids, it has always been the two of them―Valtersen and Vasquez. He can’t imagine what it would be like to not have Jonas around as a buffer. So Isak doesn’t tell him everything, so what? There’s no need for Jonas to know things that won’t make sense. How he loved Jonas in a different way, once, but it’s okay now, he’s past that. He loves him, but _not like that_. Why make Jonas uncomfortable with something that isn’t even true anymore? Why complicate the one relationship in his life that isn’t?

“You need to eat something else besides bread, Issy K,” Jonas smiles.

“Don’t say that in front of Mahdi. He’ll start calling me Issy K, and I’ll have to hang myself.”

“Call you what, Issy K?” Mahdi plops down next to Isak.

“Fuck.”

Jonas cracks up, and Isak slumps forward onto his forearm; the two boys chant that ridiculous nickname and bang the table with their open palms.

Isak’s phone pings, and while picking it up, everything stills. It’s Even, sending him a song. _Nobody Speak_ by DJ Shadow and Run the Jewels.

**For your tough guy walk home**

It’s perfect.

When he goes to rehearsal the next day, it’s still playing on his headphones, and Even looks up from the front of the room and smiles like he knows Isak’s listening. Bille is still out, and they rehearse with Julian, who’s as tall as Isak but has terrible posture, so Isak looms over him anyway. Julian says his lines so softly that every time he speaks, Isak feels agitation building up in his chest―he has to lean in to hear anything. Maja teaches them a dance for their scene, and Isak doesn’t have a moment to hate it because Even keeps making him laugh, on purpose. Juliet dances with Paris, and Romeo has already caught her eye.

They do an additional Paris-and-Juliet scene, and Julian isn’t terrible. Or rather, he improves. He’s better than Bille, in that at least he’s done some homework on the part. Maybe hanging out the evening prior improved him somewhat. He’s funnier than Isak thought―caustic and sharp. The kind of person who makes remarks that hit a minute after they’re said.

Even talks to Julian differently than he does Isak. The two of them get into it, discussing “journeys” and someone named Harold Bloom. Isak writes the name in the margin of his script, to remind himself to Google it later.

Gregard and Jens show up to work on the Capulet scenes, and as they read, Isak settles into Juliet. It’s easy to pretend to be honor-bound to someone he doesn’t want, because it’s expected. Particularly with a starry-eyed Emma in the sidelines, reading along with his lines. And Even, too, with his ideas upon ideas, who can make a horrible dance seem like an actual good time.

The string arrangement for the dance is still on at the close of rehearsal, and although everyone else has left, Isak stays, walking slowly through the choreography. He’s not sure why it’s important to get it right, but he must. Isak needs to learn those steps well enough so he stops thinking about it. Stops counting out loud, at least. He recognizes that this is all ridiculous, he’s not going to last as Juliet, but he can’t help himself.

Even jumps onto the stage and does the dance alongside him. He’s so tall, he moves with his shoulders drawn back to balance his legs and arms, leading with his neck, the swing of his wide shoulders. Isak makes no attempt to look good, he only wants to memorize the moves, and Even mirrors his gracelessness, down to every missed step.

“Are you making fun of me?”

“Ooh, a raised eyebrow,” Even says, turning when Isak turns. “I only want to see if this dance is as difficult as you’re making it look. Not really, right?”

“Shut up. I’m the lord of the dance.”

Even widens his eyes cartoonishly. “Maybe I’m going about this the wrong way...perhaps I should ask Maja to make it more demanding, so you can really show off your skills.”

“I can’t talk to you about anything without you getting ideas.”

“Oh Juliet, you don’t even have to talk for me to get ideas.” Even waggles his eyebrows at him and Isak laughs.

“What the fuck?”

Even shrugs and keeps moving until they finish the sequence and bow to one another. It could be flirting. Even is flirty. There’s nobody in the theater. No one can see how fine Isak is with it all.

“Why are you pretending?”

He freezes. “Pretending?”

“That you’re not off-book?”

Isak laughs, relieved. “Yes, of course I’m off-book, Even. I am the MASTER of memorization.”

“Wow.”

“Some of us are just that good.”

“I see. You’re a natural at everything.”

“Sure.”

Even turns abruptly and bounds over to the sound system, shutting down everything with impressive speed. “It’s a nice night, Isak. Lets walk home.”

“Walk?”

“Yes, we can do a bit of bonding.”

Isak smiles at that, confused. “Okay.”

“Don’t worry, Isak. Not too much bonding,” Even says with a grin. “Just the right amount.”

They walk slowly and talk about nonsense, mostly. The moon is full, and there’s a cool, bracing wind. They wind up walking past Isak's apartment and just meandering, lost in conversation. Isak tells Even about meeting Jonas in Kindergarten, and Even laughs, telling him that he’d love to see a photo.

“Why?”

“Because I imagine you’d look exactly the same. Jonas with those beautiful, ancient eyes. And you.”

“And me what?”

“A little angel.”

Isak snorts. “I had long hair.”

“No! Now I’ll definitely have to see photographic proof of this.”

“Yeah, that’s never going to happen.”

They stop outside a karaoke bar next to the river, talking and listening to people inside, who are singing dance songs, terribly.

“God, those songs are such shit.”

Even sways back and forth, his nose pink and his cheeks too, like a blush. “I disagree, Isak. These songs are amazing. Listen to these people giving it their all; those songs moved them to do that.”

“Whatever.”

“I love this one. It reminds me of something that Noel Coward said: ‘Strange how potent cheap music is.’ We talked about this, remember? Context. Next song someone sings is going to make you think of us standing here. Forever.”

They wait for applause, signaling the end of one selection and the start of another. A girl starts screeching a song that Isak has never heard before in his life. He grimaces, and Even laughs so hard, the force of it bends him over.

“This fucking sucks. I don’t even know what it is. ”

Even’s eyes narrow, and he looks to the side as he nods his head, still laughing. “I don’t know it either. But I’m going to investigate.”

“Good luck with that.”

“But it’s _the song_. I need to know.”

The young woman inside hits a particularly hollow note, and the crowd inexplicably cheers her on.

Isak laughs as Even widens his stance and raises his arms over his head to the full moon. “Oh Moon above—what is this song?”

“O, swear not by the moon, th' inconstant moon, that monthly changes in her circle orb, lest that thy love prove likewise variable.”

It isn’t meant as anything but a joke, a callback to the fact that Isak really is mostly off-book, but it comes off as more plaintive than he intended. It feels heavy too, the ache rounds his shoulders, and makes him frown as soon as he finishes.

“Yes,” Even says, biting the corner of his lip. “And...what shall I swear by?”

“Not the fucking moon.”

Even throws his head back to laugh, then moves closer. Repeats, in a murmur, “Not the fucking moon. You would say that.”

The moon is full, fat and torch-bright. It should be a colder night, given the wind, but it isn’t. The river glimmers, and the lights hanging outside the bar blow back and forth, in concert with faint chimes from someone’s window. Each sound is isolated―the gurgle of the water, the wind, the music from the karaoke bar. Whoever is singing now is _almost_ good, and Isak likes Even so much. They are friends, he thinks, in that, like friends, they can talk about anything. But also, they are more than that. Isak wants Even’s hands, and that laugh, the perfect near-circle of Even’s mouth and dimpled chin. He wants to pull Even down by that stupid jean jacket, right to his face, so he can make those plush lips open, kiss them apart. Then pet the soft, fine hair at the nape of his neck; grab there, to make him still, keep him close.

He knows it isn’t possible, but Isak would even swear to the moon, the changeable moon, if it meant keeping this moment right here for a little bit, these feelings, before they become something else. Isak likes Even and wants him. Maybe what he feels is more than both those things—something vastly more discomfiting. And nobody knows, not Even, and this knowledge is his; only his.

Isak’s phone pings. Mamma.

**a hottempered person MUST pay the penalty rescu e them & you will have to do it agn**

Even is standing close enough to read Isak’s phone, and he does, upside down, mouthing the words. Isak shivers, feeling the cold, suddenly. He shoves his phone in his pocket, nearly dropping it in his haste to put it away.

“Do you get those often?”

Isak looks down at Even’s hands, his long thumbs which stroke Isak’s palms, and shrugs. “Once or twice a week. It’s nothing.”

There’s some noise to his left; a group of boys exit the karaoke bar, and Isak steps back from Even. One of them has a red balloon tied around his wrist, and another flicks at it with his fingers, laughing uproariously. Even squeezes Isak’s arm and takes off, striding away from the hubbub.

“Come on.”

Once they’re crossing the river on Ingens gate, Even lets go and continues on ahead. Isak breaks into a jog to keep up.

“What’s going on?”

Even glances back, mouth hanging open. “You’re shivering. You need to get home and so do I. Come on.”

The Kollektiv isn’t far from where they were; and when they get to Isak’s doorway, Even pats him awkwardly with a single _goodbye_ before rushing off into the night, hands in his pockets. Isak goes upstairs and finds Eskild sleeping on the couch with Linn tucked into his side, not-watching a black-and-white movie. Isak turns it off, and Eskild startles.

“What are you doing, Isak? I was watching that!”

Isak turns it on again and gets lost in the image on the screen. A woman trying to hide her face as a man aims a flashlight or something on it. She’s crying and pleading for him to stop.

Eskild’s eyes slowly narrow back into sleep.

Back in his room, Isak puts his headphones on and listens to nothing at all. The steps between finding a song on Spotify and hitting play are too difficult. His dad pays for his subscription, which he’s mildly grateful for, usually...but not tonight.

Isak looks at Mamma’s message again. It’s one of the more reasonable ones. No sinner is burning in the fires of hell. The warning could apply to anyone.

He texts Even.

**did you get home okay?**

Now he’s the uncool one.

There’s a red-framed mirror by the door to his room, leaning against the wall. He walks over to it slowly. Shifts, from side-to-side, curving his shoulders forward to look slighter. His lips part, his eyes widen, and he raises his hand, palm facing his reflection. Isak pushes his hand forward until it touches the surface. Palm-to-palm.

It’s too bad he can’t whisper onstage. Can’t caress the words they way they need to be caressed, and still be heard.

If Romeo had never lost his infatuation with Rosaline, never had a reason to even look at Juliet, what would she have done? Would she have seen him and thought, _he’s beautiful_ and kept dancing with Paris regardless? Been the dutiful daughter her parents expected her to be? Marrying when she’s told to marry? Becoming them, losing all color, lying constantly? Because she isn’t anyone, not even herself?

His own reflection startles him. The rise and fall of his chest, as he breathes hard.

Juliet’s got a stubborn chin that she tilts up when challenged. She’s headstrong and unafraid.

Isak would like to be that unafraid.

The realization hits him like a cold wave. He is going to do this play and he's not backing out.

In the mirror, Juliet says, “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other word would smell as sweet. So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called.”

Said out loud, it sounds so true. He smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mild canon-adjacent content warning: talk of suicide
> 
> songs for this chapter are:
> 
> _Playground Love_ by Air  
> (courtyard slo-mo)  
>  _Dance of the Knights_ by Sergei Prokofiev  
> (observing the hierarchies)  
>  _Silver_ by Caribou  
> (bike ride home)  
>  _At Last I Am Free_ by Elizabeth Fraser  
> (movement exercise)  
>  _Feel Me Flow_ by Naughty by Nature  
> (tram)  
>  _Nobody Speak_ by DJ Shadow and Run the Jewels  
> (tough guy tune)  
>  _Venus as a Boy_ by Vitamin String Quartet  
> (Juliet dances with Paris)  
>  _Hey Moon_ by John Maus  
> (long walk home)  
>  _Vestkantsvartinga_ by Karpe, Pumba  
> (outro)  
>   
> soundtrack can be listened to **[here](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLWfM4lhzgKQWns3CZDlp5Y_NFhjrQyaVI)**


	4. I know what you’re doing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isak breathes in and holds his hand up. Even echoes the movement.
> 
> Their hands do not touch; they hover next to one another, palm-to-palm.
> 
> Has the music gotten louder? Time is as slow as a downwards breaststroke toward the bottom of a swimming pool.
> 
> Romeo scoots closer and puts his palm against Juliet’s. They both shiver at the contact, and when Even slides his hand against Isak’s, skin-to-skin, he intertwines their fingers; Isak is nearly panting. There isn’t enough air in his lungs.
> 
> “Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **see end notes for canon-adjacent content warnings**

He sees Even everywhere. Or rather, he thinks he sees him, but really it's just reminders; the blue of a denim jacket, a swirl of hair, a peal of laughter. Little things, here and there, which amplify Isak's desire to see him again, and to spend more time in his presence, preferably alone. It doesn't have to be anything more than talking, but he'd rather it was just the two of them.

Talking to Jonas by their lockers, Isak manages to avoid mentioning Even or R+J. But he finds himself actively fighting asking, at every opening in their conversation. Oh, there's a pre-party at Julian's? ( _Is Even going?_ ) Play-themed? ( _Should they ask Even?_ ) Isak nods blandly. Luckily, his Hell Locker is only too willing to steal focus by refusing to open.

On Tuesday, at 14.30 on the dot, Isak arrives at rehearsal to find Magnus reading a book called _An Actor Prepares_. He puts it down to brag to Isak that he’s memorized all his lines, and tells a highly improbable story about hooking up with some girl from Handels at a party last Friday.

Isak presses the script to his chest. “Why are you here? I thought you didn't start for another hour?”

“Even told me I could come early.” Magnus scratches his nose. “I was hanging with him and Maja at lunch. Bro. I think they're gonna hoooook up. Maja wants a piece of Even dot COM.”

_Right,_ Isak thinks. “And Even?”

“He seems-” Magnus switches to obnoxiously accurate-sounding American-accented English. “down to clown, if you know what I mean.”

There’s laughter from the hall, and Even enters with Chris, Maja, and the drama teacher, whose name Isak constantly forgets.

“Hello,” Even calls out. “Before everyone else arrives we're going to focus on our two-person scenes starting with Juliet and her Romeo. No Bille tonight, so I’ll be filling in. Isak, is that okay?”

Isak nods.

“Great. Sofia’s agreed to sit in for me and take some notes.”

She peers at them over her reading glasses. “Boys.”

They mumble their _hi’s_ and _hey’s_.

Chris puts some music on, and Sofia sits next to her. Magnus chats up Maja, her glossy brown ponytail swinging as she talks. Even sits at foot of the long table and looks through the script, peeling a clementine as he reads and piling up the bits of peel into a teetering tower of orange and white. He is a surprisingly messy eater—juice escapes his mouth and runs down his chin, and he wipes it absent-mindedly with a swipe of his wrist. The aroma travels across the studio; Isak inhales, averting his eyes when Even licks his thumb.

The floor is empty, save for Isak. He places the script on the floor and removes his hoodie, hyper-aware suddenly of the thin material of his t-shirt. Swallowing, he picks up the script again. He feels wrong, somehow. His skin too tight. Mindlessly, he slaps the book against his thigh.

The quartet at the stage manager’s table talk among themselves, and Even bumps him on the shoulder, startling him.

“Let’s skip ahead.”

“What?” Isak looks down at his script and blinks. 

“Yes. Let’s do the balcony scene.” Even nods, first at him, and then towards a spot where they’ve marked the edge of the ‘stage’ in tape. “I’ll sit over there, downstage.”

Isak moves uncertainly into position. “I’m just going to talk to myself, over here?” A flash of nerves makes his voice rise in pitch.

Even bites his lip. “No...” He chews for a bit, then looks up with a small, mischievous grin. “Because I will.” His long legs move first, seemingly ahead of the rest of him, around Isak, forcing a rotation between the two of them that’s like the revolving gears of a clock.

“I’ll be your Juliet, and you’ll be my Romeo.”

“Why would we do that?” Isak asks, furrowing his brow but smiling a little, helplessly so.

“For fun. You can show me how it’s done, and then...we’ll swap.”

Isak glances over at the table. Chris and Magnus are staring rapt at Sofia as she gestures wildly. They’re not paying any attention to Isak and Even.

“Wait. Is this your weird way of showing me how I should be playing Juliet?”

Even laughs. “No. I just want to try it. I’ve never seen her from this perspective, nor you, this way.”

“All right,” Isak shrugs.

_How hard can it be?_ Isak likes Even. Romeo more than likes Juliet. Tapping into those feelings for a bit shouldn’t be too painful, despite them being entirely one-sided.

“Yeah?”

“Wait,” Isak says, and rushes over to the chair where he left his hoodie. He puts it on, then his snapback, pulling the lid around. Isak rolls his shoulders, then crouches on the spot where Even said he’d be. He looks up to see Even standing there, staring at him. The room is quiet, save for the music playing, and he gets it. Juliet is at her window, he is down below. _It is my lady. Oh, it is my love. Oh, that she knew she were!_

_Fuck it_. Even’s Juliet won’t stand a chance against his Romeo. The whole point is to make it real.

He can do that.

_It’s fine._

Even’s voice is soft. “Ready?”

They start. He only has to shut his eyes for a moment before opening them toward the light.

* * *

That night, Eskild kills time in Isak's room, waiting to entertain a Grindr date who claims to only like dick “sometimes” and apparently, that's enough.

“Though I'd rather be in a relationship. I miss my ex.”

Eskild is rarely forlorn, so Isak asks, careful not to appear too interested. “Where did you meet?”

“At a university party.” Eskild smiles to himself. “He was there with a girl but I could tell-”

“That he was gay?”

“That he liked me,” Eskild says, with an imperious wave of his hand. “I slipped sex into the conversation and he didn't run away.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Isak, a guy that doesn't panic when you casually mention wanting to suck a dick is probably okay with you sucking theirs.”

“Maybe he's being polite.”

Eskild stares up at the ceiling, finger tapping his lip. “Okay, yes. He was extremely polite later that night. So maybe you're onto something there.”

The downstairs buzzer rings.

He pats Isak on the head. "That's my cue.”

Isak watches Eskild go, closing the door behind him. He wiggles down until he's flat on the bed and thinks. Could Even actually be interested in him? Or is he only joking, harmlessly and without meaning?

His phone vibrates in his hand. A text from Even.

**I'm calling for an angel**  
**To bring me a dark night, to bind me**  
**In my daydreams, darkness finds me**  
**It takes me somewhere I need to be**  
**If you can't see me**  
**At least you can feel me**

He reads it and reads it as if close study will translate the message.

**what is this?**

Isak waits but Even doesn't respond.

* * *

Since Nissen’s theater is being used by _Julius Caesar_ , rehearsals for _Romeo and Juliet_ are moving to the long-shuttered Bjarne Andersen theater, which is located five minutes from the school. Even walked them over after rehearsal, and it looked small from the outside, boarded-up and dark. He told them it had a proscenium stage, red curtains―this is directed specifically at Isak―and a great backstage area, which needed some cleaning up. That’s what the fundraiser everyone’s been whispering about is for―aid, to renovate the theater. Even, Chris, and some of the tech crew had been over there already, cleaning up the place. When, Isak doesn’t know. Even's texts―songs, lyrics, thoughts, terrible jokes―come at all hours. Isak's own sleep habits are shitty, but he actually worries about Even’s. At least when Isak isn’t sleeping, he’s in bed, thinking about sleeping.

They start rehearsing at the Andersen today. Chris posted photos of the now-clean and well-lit space. The stage is full of neon-green taped marks, indicating where they’ll stand, sit, love and die.

It’s becoming real.

Too real.

“Kitten. Kitten. KITTEN.”

Isak blink-startles in Eskild’s direction, barely awake in his bedroom, holding his phone in one hand and struggling into his socks with the other. His roommate is draped in the doorway, dressed in an unbuttoned red-silk pajama top and black boxer briefs―one of Eskild’s less-outrageous sleep ensembles.

“You got home later than usual, last night.”

He'd wound up hanging around with Even after rehearsal. It was both too much and not enough.

“Put on some fucking pants,” Isak grumbles, before grabbing his book bag and going through it. He finished all of his homework before rehearsal yesterday, but can’t shake the feeling he’s forgetting something. Rifling doesn’t help him remember; his brain remains foggy. When he looks back up, Eskild is still staring at him, arms crossed, a single eyebrow raised.

“And _KITTEN_? What the fuck, Eskild? Don't call me that.”

“That took you a moment.”

“What do you want?”

Eskild sighs, brushing off imaginary lint from his top. “What does anyone want, Isak? Security, love, affection, a delectable-and-thorough rim job―”

“It’s too early for this,” Isak grumbles, before grabbing his things and hightailing it out the door. When he gets to the landing, Eskild shouts down to him.

“The rent. I’m short this month, and I can’t cover you.”

“Shit,” Isak stops and turns, looking up the stairs. “Sorry, sorry. I’ll get it to you today.”

On the tram, he texts his dad for money, then tries to sleep. But his phone buzzes in his pocket, startling him awake.

**Can you meet me at the Andersen a little earlier today?  
I want to go over the scene again.**

**okay  
when exactly?**

**How about 16.20?  
actually  
no**

**no?**

**16.16**

_Random_ , Isak thinks.

**fine**

**Cool**  
**Come on by**  
**and let yourself in**  
**it'll be unlocked**

* * *

When he pushes the theater doors open, and Isak's jaw drops. The auditorium stage is awash in an eerie, swimming-pool blue, with scattered white circles animated in the light like wobbly smoke rings. Soft, instrumental music plays, and all Isak can see of Even are his sneaker-clad feet on the top rung of the stagehand ladder.

Isak gets on the stage and shades his eyes as he peers up at Even, who’s trying out different gels over the lights on the rig―blue, green, yellow, pink. He holds a few between grinning teeth, like an excitable hound. Even pulls them out of his mouth and waves; the cellophane gels make a soft slapping sound.

“I’m nearly done.”

He slides down the ladder fast, a foot on each side, in a blur of blue and blonde, and steps over to Isak. “Hey.”

“Hey.” It feels as if all the air has wooshed straight out of the room, and Isak looks down at a red-taped x marked on the stage, touching it carefully with his toe. “So, uh, you wanted to go over the scene again?”

“Yes. What do you think of the lights?” Even extends his arms out. Isak’s eyes widen involuntarily.

“It’s cool.”

“Yeah?” Even nods happily, as if he actually wants Isak’s approval. Like his opinion is important.

“Yeah,” Isak says, as if it’s obvious; he straightens his spine, and then shrugs away the effort. “It’s like we’re swimming. How do you get those rings?”

“LED projection.”

Isak follows the path of Even’s long finger towards the back of the auditorium; he hadn’t noticed the light, beaming from the empty control booth.

“That’s fucking sick.”

Even’s smile grows even wider, and Isak feels that contradictory pull in his chest. He wants to smile back, but he also wants to run. Instead he stays in one spot and hopes he looks chill.

“We don’t have the budget for an actual pool, I was told.”

“Misers,” Isak deadpans.

“I know, so unreasonable. Anyway, this might do. We’ll use the light effect, some ambient sound, work on the movement; make it look like you’re sitting by a pool, feet in, splashing-”

“Throw a big bucket of water on us.”

Even tosses his head back to laugh, eyes squinting closed. It’s not that funny, or maybe it is, Isak can’t tell anymore. Even’s laughter makes him feel feather-light.

He looks good today, Even. He always looks good, but the lights are making his white t-shirt blue as well. His lips look darker, though, as if he’s been biting them. Or kissing someone.

“So...feel like a swim?”

Isak blinks guiltily, feeling caught. “Is Bille coming?”

“No,” Even shakes his head. “But we don’t need him.”

Isak doesn’t know what to do with that information, or with the sudden uptick of his heart. “Bille sucks. Sorry, I know you cast him, or whatever. Just my opinion.”

“Oh? Why do you think that?”

“Well, for one, he thinks that saying his lines as close,” he says, getting in Even’s space, emboldened by the impromptu demonstration. “―to my face as possible is all he needs to do to look like he’s in love.”

Even laughs, and moves in closer as well. “Maybe he’s nearsighted.”

“Yeah, right. And he’s too vain to wear glasses.” Isak spins around, and sits down on the low, wooden bench that they use for nearly every scene. Talking to Even is safer from a distance. Particularly now, as he chews his lip and narrows his eyes, nodding almost imperceptibly. As if he knows what Isak’s thinking, and likes it.

“I don’t think he’s that vain, actually.”

“Have you met the guy?”

“I’ve spent some time with him one-on-one, outside of school.”

“More than just yesterday?”

“Yes, more than that.”

Isak frowns. “So I’m not special, then?”

Even’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, Isak. You’re very special.” Even winks again and laughs. “No, Bille’s not vain. Like most people, he’s constructed a front, an armor he can hide behind.”

“What does he have to hide?”

“Everybody has something to hide. Don’t you find?”

Before Isak can worry about that statement, Even goes into the wings and turns off the house lights. His voice booms offstage, warm and pleasant.

“I think Bille is smart, thoughtful, and empathetic. I also think he’s competitive, and doesn’t want to look like a fool. As long as you keep providing able assistance, we have nothing to worry about.”

Now that Even can’t see him, Isak blurts out, “You didn’t answer my text last night.”

There’s rustling in the wings. “Sorry, I got home and fell asleep.”

With the rest of the house dark, the effect of the swimming pool lights onstage is even more pronounced. Isak reaches an arm out, then sweeps it as if he’s moving it in the water.

“Do you really think Bille can do underwater movement? I don’t think so.” Isak removes his jacket and tosses it onto one of the darkened front-row seats. His gray sweatshirt follows suit. Under the lights, his yellow Bowser t-shirt turns green.

“Sure. Can you?”

Isak pivots at Even’s reappearance from the wings. He looks so beautiful in the light. Blue eyes, bluer.

“Can I? Of course I can,” Isak says, with a put-upon frown. “My first role was Baby Jesus in the Nativity play at my mom’s church, when I was six months old. I was in the manger and everything. Played the role for three years, didn’t cry once.”

“Wow. A veteran thespian.”

“Why do you think I’m so fucking good, Even?”

“Hmmm.” Even crosses his arms, resting a shoulder against the proscenium arch―a long, lean line of boy.

“I could do all the roles in your little play.”

“My little play?”

Isak moves to straddle the bench, leaning back on the heels of his hands. “Yes. Play Romeo to my own Juliet. One man R+J. What do you think?”

“I think...” Even tilts his head. “I might pay to see that.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yes. I love looking at your face.”

It throws Isak enough to blurt out his first thought. “Shut the fuck up.”

“What? I love your face, Isak.” Even shrugs like it’s nothing, then grins again, easy and uncomplicated. Isak can’t think of a single comeback.

“I. Uh. I mean. Okay, I guess.”

When he’s serious, Even’s brows knit together, and he shakes his head a little, chin nearly touching his chest. Isak’s seen it enough times at this point to mimic the expression exactly. He’s done it in the mirror, in the morning, while fixing his hat on his head and getting ready for school. While reciting, “I gave thee mine before thou didst request it: And yet I would it were to give again,” and understanding, with worrisome clarity, exactly what those words meant.

Even’s voice gets lower, too, a pitch which is usually comforting, honest, lulling. Isak knows he can’t quite copy that timbre.

“Writers use words to tell stories. They love those words, so that we can too. Dancers move their bodies through space, their limbs are poetry. It’s supposed to be beautiful. Art usually is. Why else would we take the time to look at it?”

Even gestures towards the pitch-black of the audience, and then back at Isak.

“We are asking them to sit in the dark for hours, watching us.”

Isak’s nervous laugh echoes over the auditorium, imagining all those eyes fixed on him.

“I’m a director, Isak. I tell stories with everything at my disposal. The lights here, the music. I chose you, your body, your face. It is a fine face. With fine eyes.”

Piano plays softly over the speakers; Isak hadn’t noticed, at first. He hears it now, though, building in his head.

Isak shifts back slightly on the bench when Even sits down next to him, now regarding Isak as if he were art. He thinks he might be.

“You like my eyes?” Isak widens them to bug-eyed effect.

Even’s smile is delightfully crooked. “You don’t think you have fine eyes?”

“I don’t think about them.”

“Hmmm,” Even says, squinting at him in the blue light. “I like how sly they are at times. Intelligent. Then wide, as if you couldn’t possibly believe what’s being said to you. You don’t need any words at all to say what you’re feeling or thinking. I just have to look.” Even leans in, fast, tapping the tip of Isak’s nose with his finger. “You have an excellent nose, too. And your lips. That beauty mark right above them...” Even shakes his head as he trails off and smiles as if his delight is the end of the sentence.

It disorients Isak, to hear himself spoken of this way. He’s not used to being looked at. Not this closely. He rubs a sweaty palm on his blue jeans.

“You lick your lips all the time. You are aware of this, no?” Even draws back, but his head continues to lean forward, as if peering into Isak’s eyes. His brows knit again.

Isak shakes his head.

“I draw them constantly, without even thinking,” Even continues. “There they are, all over my notebook margins. You should see my English notebook—covered with Isak Valtersen’s cursive-like lips.”

_He draws me_ , Isak thinks. Is that weirder than the fact that Even touched his face just now? That their bodies seem to be closer on the bench? Or that Isak wants him closer still?

Even’s gaze travels down Isak’s neck, down his chest, then his arm.

“Yes. Beautiful.”

It’s warm onstage, hot almost, so it doesn’t make sense to shiver, but he does. Isak lets his head fall back. It’s nearly involuntary. Even takes his hand.

“You also have excellent fingers. Your hands, your fingers. So beautiful.”

Slowly, Even lifts Isak’s hand towards his mouth as if to kiss it; and when Isak nods, he doesn’t know why, Even speaks. “If I profane with my unworthiest hand, this holy shrine, the gentle sin is this: My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.”

Even’s lips hover over the area right above Isak’s knuckles, lips puckered, eyes looking into his. After an achingly-long moment, he finally kisses Isak’s hand, and at the press of those lips to his skin, Isak swallows, his throat dry.

_Oh._

Even when he pretends not to, Isak can usually see straight through whatever front people put up, to hide their real intentions; and he knows what's happening, here. It’s a trick―a director’s trick. And it’s so clever, he’s not even mad. Even disarmed him with words, got Isak just pliant enough, the way Romeo does to Juliet, and then started the scene he wanted them to rehearse. It worked; the feelings _feel_ real and Isak’s receptive.

Isak pulls his hand free and brings it up to his cheek, which is so warm to the touch, it’s like he can feel the color underneath his palm. He tries to remember his line. “Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,” he manages, finally, with a tiny giggle, which, _what the fuck?_ But Even laughs too, and that makes it all right. They're together in this. Even’s eyes are round and warm, and his mouth is a dusty pink, now that he’s closer. Eyes and mouth, both warm and warm-seeming. Touch, warm. The spot on his hand, which Even has kissed, is warm, too.

Wiping his forehead, Isak looks for his script, which sits, propped open, at the lip of the stage, and briefly considers reaching for it. But it seems further away than it actually is, and he doesn’t really need it. His tongue swipes his bottom lip, his mind already ahead in the scene.

“Which mannerly devotion shows-” Isak raises his eyebrow, because he’s fucking with Romeo now the way Juliet would, messing with the beautiful party-crasher who’s not supposed to be here. “...in this.” He presses his palms together in front of his face and peers past them.

Even laughs and nods, his lips pursing slightly, as if skeptical. As if. Romeo loves it, Isak is certain. He is playful that way. He loves that the object of his attention _gets_ it.

“For saints,” Isak continues, gesturing towards himself and smirking at Even’s eyebrow-wiggle. “...have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch-” The flirting has to be somewhat obvious, clumsy and genuine. Otherwise, how will he know to come closer? Romeo needs to be closer, even if Juliet doesn’t know why she wants him near. Isak straightens his shoulders, slides his eyes up to Even’s, and commits. “...and palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss.”

Isak breathes in and holds his hand up. Even echoes the movement.

Their hands do not touch; they hover next to one another, palm-to-palm.

Has the music gotten louder? Time is as slow as a downwards breaststroke toward the bottom of a swimming pool.

Romeo scoots closer and puts his palm against Juliet’s. They both shiver at the contact, and when Even slides his hand against Isak’s, skin-to-skin, he intertwines their fingers; Isak is nearly panting. There isn’t enough air in his lungs.

“Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?”

Even’s voice is deep, a little raspy―from all the weed smoking, probably. Also, it’s tender. Soft. It sounds like longing. Like he longs.

“Ay, pilgrim,” Isak tilts his head, and Even mirrors it, making him smile. Focus. “―lips that they must use in prayer.”

Isak draws out the word _prayer_ , and Even smiles. It’s only sarcasm. The collar of Even’s white t-shirt is worn; there are two little holes at the neck.

Even hooks a long leg over Isak’s, and their hands are now clasped tight. Even addresses Isak’s mouth, which he can’t seem to close. “O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do.” He squeezes Isak’s hand. “They pray; grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.”

Unexpectedly, that brings tears to Isak’s eyes.

Those words don't sound like bullshit, not the way that Even says them. The idea that one could be saved from despair by a kiss feels like truth, and it lands hard. Even’s eyes had shot upwards on that word― _despair_ ―and now they’re closed. His eyelids are pale, patterned with little blue veins, lashes are long and dark-blonde. Those lips are waiting.

Juliet is frozen by feeling, and Isak’s voice can barely manage speech. It’s shapes, just shapes of his lips he needs to make, air pushing through flesh. “Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake.”

Even’s eyes pop open. “Then move not, while my prayer’s effect I take.” He’s too close to look at without vertigo. “Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged.”

He’s supposed to kiss Isak. Her. Romeo kisses Juliet. But Even isn’t moving, just staring, trying to communicate something with his eyes that Isak can’t decipher. Maybe he doesn’t want to; Isak doesn’t understand shit. All he wants is that kiss. He needs it.

“Then have my lips the sin that they have took.”

It’s not meant to sound petulant. That’s Isak’s impatience, not Juliet’s. Or maybe it’s both. Not that the “who” or “why” seems to matter to Even’s Romeo. His face splits open into an enormous smile which appears real, and while Isak knows it can’t be―they’re acting, this is acting―he lets himself believe that it is. Strains forward to meet its warmth. Even places his forehead to Isak’s, and this is it.

“Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again.”

Isak swears he feels the brush of his lips on that second ‘sin’; then someone stage-whispers from the audience, “Now FUCK,” and the intensity of the moment breaks amid laughter and applause.

Even grins out at the darkness and tips his head forward in a bow. Isak smiles automatically and does the same, even though he feels himself going into a kind of shock. He doesn’t know who is out there, how much they saw, or how much he revealed, but better they think it’s this...a performance. He’s a good actor—a great one, maybe, given the shit he has to keep hidden. Let their impromptu audience keep believing that was fake.

The house lights come on, and Isak blinks and blinks. Even leaves the bench to crouch at the lip of the stage and whisper with someone. Once his eyes adjust, Isak makes out that it’s Bille, who nods his way while the rest of the cast piles onstage, rushing him from all sides.

“That was fucking insane!!!” Magnus screeches. “You’re an incredible actor, holy shit! I forgot you weren’t a chick! I wanted you guys to bone down.” He turns to Mahdi and screeches, “I told you he could act! And you didn’t fucking believe me. IN YOUR FACE!”

Mahdi sighs. “How are you allowed to be out in public, man? Isak, respect. You were so good, you almost made me forget you look like an angry squirrel.”

“Thanks, dickhead.” Isak relaxes, grateful for Mahdi’s dependable abuse. They bump fists.

Surfacing, he breathes out slowly. Isak slouches, wincing, wishing he had his hoodie on so he could pull the strings, and hide inside his hood. He’s trying to put as much distance between the person he just was onstage—not quite Juliet, something far too close to himself—and whoever it is everyone’s smiling at now. The boy he’s supposed to be, but isn’t.

Emma hugs him so hard, she almost tips over the bench. She pulls away, holding onto his face, grip pinching at his cheekbone. “That was so beautiful, and so HOT.”

Julian Dahl nods earnestly next to her, ducking down to hug him awkwardly with one arm. Isak’ll take Dahl’s socially-awkward hovering over Emma’s relentlessness any day.

“Thanks, Julian.”

“Awesome job.”

Magnus remains kneeling by Isak’s feet. “You have to teach me how to do what you do, Isak. Teach me to crush acting.”

“Yeah, this is weird.” Isak looks over at Jonas, hoping for commiseration. His best friend’s smile is confused; his gaze, also confused. As if Isak has grown an extra head he’s just now seen. Isak mouths “What is it?” at him, but Jonas continues to stare the way he does whenever he can’t understand him.

A beautiful blonde with a dentist's dream of a smile, walks past Jonas to approach Isak. “Hello, Juliet. I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Uh. Cool?” Isak has no idea who she is. Behind her, Jonas bobs his eyebrows up once and turns to amble over to Even.

Emma puts her arm around the young woman, squeezing her to her side. “This is Sonja, she graduated from Bakka last year. She’s helping us with costumes, and she’s super-awesome!”

“Thank you. You’re sweet.” Sonja turns to him again, tucking her hair behind her ear. It’s a funny gesture. Her hair is short; she doesn’t need to. Maybe it used to be long. “Isak, I have to tell you, Even might have actually been underselling something for once. That never happens. Stunning scene work. I had goosebumps.” She holds out her arm and mimes a shiver. Her teeth are blindingly white; she could be an actress, herself.

“Thank you.”

“You made _him_ look good.”

Sonja motions back to Even, and he looks up from his conversation with Bille to raise his eyebrows in their direction.

“He’s talented.” That feels safe enough to say.

“You think? He doesn’t like to act.” She wrinkles her nose when she smiles. It does nothing to dim her attractiveness. “Though it’s been a while since I’ve seen him play Romeo.”

“He played Romeo?” Isak smiles past her at Even, who glances back at him with an unreadable expression. Not blank, it’s too studied for that. His eyes are at odds with his posture.

“Yes, at Bakka.” Sonja frowns slightly, shaking her head. “He didn’t tell you guys?”

“Maybe. I might have missed it.”

“He was excellent.”

“You saw him do it?”

She grins. “Yes. You could say I had a front row seat.”

Isak looks over at Even again. It’s a darting glance; he keeps it short. Partly because he doesn’t want to give any more of himself away, and looking at Even will do that―strip him bare, for everyone to see. Partly because he has a growing awareness, a prickle at the back of his neck, that Sonja knows Even well, and wants people to realize it. He nods at her, careful to let his grimace become a smile.

“So do you want to be an actor?”

“Not really, no.”

Sonja laughs. “Really? But you're so talented.”

Tore Ertl and Julian Mahler, two of the first-years who are playing multiple roles, come up and pat him on the back. Their compliments sound like white noise, but he nods anyway. Nearly the entire cast is present, and they all just saw him almost make out with Even. They think it’s acting. There's a knot of hysterical laughter tight in his chest. He smiles at Sonja, remembering that she’s waiting. “It’s fun, I guess. But it’s...yeah. I’m on a science track. I'll probably study bio-chem or bio-physics, get into research, maybe.”

“Research?” Her eyes travel around the room, and Isak wonders why she’s asking.

“Yeah. Medical research, maybe. Uh, dementia. Alzheimer’s.”

‘That’s fascinating. Personal connection?”

Isak frowns. “No.”

In the back of the rehearsal room, behind her makeshift stage manager’s desk, Chris cackles; and for a disorienting second, Isak thinks she’s laughing at him. Maja is stretching in front of her, wearing work-out spandex with what looks like the Pillars of Creation on her ass. _An odd choice_ , he thinks. Working out, moving, could not be more earthbound.

“Okay,” Sonja breathes out. She smiles at him, but there’s something in her eyes that wasn’t there before—a dimming of interest. “Thank you.”

“Oh?” Isak raises an eyebrow. “For what?”

“I was strong-armed into helping out here, and now I’m actually inspired. You’ve given me some wonderful ideas for Juliet.”

“No dresses or wigs,” Isak says, automatically.

Sonja laughs. “Yes, I heard. Don’t worry. I’ve been properly vetted by Il Duce over there.”

At that, Chris calls everyone to the front of the stage, and Isak slinks his way to second row, sitting between Magnus and Julian Dahl. Julian hands him a water bottle.

“Thanks.”

Julian nods, mouth twisting to the side, index finger pushing some of that long, lank hair behind his ear. “We’re not supposed to drink in here, but you must be thirsty.”

He is. Isak gulps and gulps, downing more than is probably polite.

Even clears his throat, and everyone’s casual chatter dims to a hush. “We have some personnel updates to share with you. Most of you know Maja from all of our recent movement work. She is officially our production’s choreographer, and has kindly and bravely decided to take on all fight choreography as well.”

Maja waves brightly. “I am doing an apprenticeship with a stage combat choreographer from Centralteatret, so I’m really excited for this opportunity to expand my movement work.”

“Thank you, Maja,” Even says, with a big squinty-eyed grin. “We are very lucky to have you.”

“That’s what she said,” Magnus whispers hotly in Isak’s ear.

“Ugh. Shut the fuck up, Magnus. That doesn’t even make sense.”

“We also have two first years who have ill-advisedly agreed to join our crew: Maria Bergheim―who is, yes, Ragnar’s little sister―playing several characters in this production.”

From the audience Ragnar bellows “MARIA!” and the girl blushes, murmuring, “Shut up,” as everyone laughs.

“Also Susanna Taslimi as Citizen of Verona and Peter.”

A diminutive girl with glossy-black hair that's shaved on one side waves her fingers in the air, and everyone yells greetings.

“Last, but not least, taking on the work of costume design, Sonja Follestad.” Even reaches out to Sonja and pulls her to his side; she puts her arm around him. “She and I worked together at Bakka, and she is most talented.”

Even leans down slowly, or maybe it just seems slow to Isak, and kisses Sonja on the lips. Everyone is quiet.

Sonja looks up sheepishly and laughs. “I’m also his girlfriend.”

The cast claps and yells, as if this is a massive achievement; and if Isak were feeling more present, he would recognize that it is. However, Isak’s everything deserts him.

Well, not everything. He remembers to smile. Nod a bit, laugh when Mahdi laughs at him during the rehearsal break. Say his lines well enough to suggest someone’s home, upstairs. Remembers his legs, and how to use them to walk straight to the tram when rehearsal ends.

The wind is sharp tonight, and it stings his right cheek. His breath condenses in the air.

“Hi.”

Isak glances toward Emma. “Hey.”

She has enormous eyes―pretty and hazel.

“You were so good today. Sorry if I was on top of you earlier. I was. Yeah. You are amazing.”

“Thank you.”

Emma moves closer, her arms crossed. “I know what you’re doing.”

There’s silence between them, and, warily, Isak glances further down the tram’s waiting area, where Gregard and Ragnar laugh loudly with Maria and Susanna. “Oh?”

“You’re, like, conserving energy. Like, the way Olympic athletes hold back sometimes, in training.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Do they do that?”

“Ye-yesss.”

Her blush is strong. It blooms on her cheek and creeps to her neck. He moves a little closer to her, because it’s expected, and he’s tired. He’s got no other option.

“I know you probably don’t have time to see anyone right now. But...I like you, Isak. I don’t think it needs to be so serious. We can be friends ‘plus’.”

She takes his hand, and Isak looks down at their twined fingers. His instinct is to pull away, say, _no. Please. Don’t._ but that’s rude, and it’s not like anything’s happening for him with anyone else. She’s a pretty, popular girl, and he’s an idiot who got suckered into playing Juliet in the school play. Emma being his friend “plus” is probably for the best.

“Okay,” he says.

It isn’t meant as encouragement. It’s self-acknowledgement. He’s a fake that’s been mostly fine being a fake because he’s never really had to examine it. Never talked to anyone without constantly thinking about what he wanted from them to see. Never had to just sit and be with someone he might actually like. For a minute, he believed he almost had that, but it wasn’t real. Isak’s lonely and tired. He knows now, he gets it. He’s the last one to get it, always. _Okay._

“Yay,” Emma whispers, and he looks up to her face moving in, her lips landing on his.

The wind picks up then and rushes between them, through the slight spaces. Emma puts her arms around his neck and tilts her head back to grin at him. What she thinks she sees is beyond him.

“Hey, guys.”

Sonja’s teeth are just as perfect outside, under streetlights. She has Even’s arm around her, and she plays with his long fingers with both her hands.

“Hiya, you’re not driving?” Emma asks, pressing closer to him, almost mirroring them. Isak wonders if she’s aware of what she’s doing. He doesn’t know anything about her, but she seems to know that Sonja has a car. _Weird_.

“Not today. I think he can handle a tram ride.”

Even breathes in deeply, staring out over the tracks.

“Oh cool, you’re going back to yours. Nice.” Emma twists to look at Isak and winks. Isak glances over at Even, and this time, their eyes meet.

“I didn’t know you two were a thing.” Sonja motions between Emma and Isak. Emma laughs.

“Well, we’re good friends. Right, Isak?”

Isak scratches the back of his neck and nods. Forces himself to look invested, _be real._

The tram comes, and he continues playing at being interested in Emma. At intermittent points in the conversation, he smiles at her; it’s the way he’s always done these things. Every now and then he dares to look at Even’s hands; his fingers tap against his knee. Those white-soled sneakers jiggle as his leg bounces. Isak looks at anything but his face.

Emma’s stop is first, and Isak realizes, too late, that she was slow to exit, as if she thought he’d walk her the rest of the way. His timing is all off. Luckily, his stop is next, so the awkward silence only needs to be endured for another minute. Whether his eyes are out on the street or on his phone, he’s hyper-aware of how often Sonja and Even touch. He texts Eskild, for something to do. Eskild promptly answers back, asking him what drugs he’s on.

His goodbye is a breathless sort of mumble. He lifts his hand and spins around the wrong way, before correcting himself and jumping off the stairwell onto the street. He walks home as if Sonja and Even are still watching him. This is a movie; he’s the lead actor, and the camera is tight on his face. Even’s way of thinking is getting to him. The way all of Even has.

* * *

On Thursday, he sleepwalks through rehearsal and sneaks out early, while Even and Maja block more of the party scene. Isak tells Chris he’s not feeling well, and it’s not a lie, exactly. The ride home on the tram is nauseating.

Linn shuffles out around 19.00 to turn on the television, and watches a reality show that seems to be mostly about people in hot tubs. Isak slurps some ramen, standing up at the kitchen counter, then he goes to his room and forces himself to study. He:

  * drafts a paper on the relationship between Siss and Unn
  * reads about earthworm reproduction
  * recites, to the white walls of his room: “Love’s heralds should be thoughts which ten times faster glide than the sun’s beams, driving back shadows over louring hills. Therefore do nimble-pinioned doves draw love and therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings-” and gritting his teeth, “-Now is the sun upon the highmost hill of this day’s journey, and from nine till twelve is three long hours, yet she is not come.
  * throws his pen across the room. Because the Nurse sucks―she’s slow as hell. The wait is interminable. Juliet is done waiting.



His phone buzzes. He doesn’t want to look. His fingers move the screen to face him. Mamma.

**exodus 20:20** **moses said to the people DO NOT BE AFRAID GOD has come to TEST you**

Another buzz. Now Emma.

**heeeey I hear you’re not feeling well  
I hope I don’t get it too lol  
let me know if you need anything**  
***nurse emoji, followed by a kissy-face emoji***

_Buzz. Buzz._ Again. _What the fuck_ , he thinks. Since when is he this popular?

It’s Jonas.

**bro I’m downstairs**

_Fuck._

Moments later, there’s a knock on his door. He shifts quickly onto his side, pulling up the duvet so it’s past his shoulders. The door opens.

“That sweet boy with the eyebrows is here,” Eskild says, at a louder-than-necessary volume, as if he knows Isak is wide-awake. Isak rolls over and blinks wearily.

“Send him in.”

It’s best if he stays in bed. A moment later, Jonas enters.

“Hey.”

“Hey, man. What’s going on?”

“Just wanted to see how you were doing. You kind of snuck out there.”

“Yeah, bro. I didn’t feel well, and I thought I was going to be sick, so I peaced out. Everything go okay?”

Jonas nods. “Yeah, it was fine. Sonja sat in for you. Did you know Even played Romeo at Bakka? Sonja was Juliet.”

“Cool. Glad she was there.”

“Yeah, she was good. But you are pretty fucking good, too. That scene you did with Even was...awesome, Isak.”

“Thanks.”

“Is everything okay with your mom?”

“Yeah.” Isak swallows. “It's all good.”

Jonas bites his lip, brows furrowed. “You look tired, so I’ll just go.”

“Yeah, thanks for coming over. It’s probably just a twenty-four-hour bug. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Seemingly satisfied, Jonas leaves his room, closing the door behind him quietly. He listens to the murmur of voices, hears them fade to the door, until finally it’s just regular quiet deadening to nothing.

_Buzz._

_Fuck you_ , he says to his pillow, but grabs his phone just the same.

Even.

It’s a gif.

***gif of Elaine Benes in bed yanking kleenex out of a tissue box.***

That gif is from the ice age. Isak imagines Even as a dinosaur―a brachiosaurus, on account of that needlessly long neck.

_Buzz._

**Missed you  
I hope you’re doing better**

**thnx**

**YES  
he’s alive!**  
***hug emoji***

Isak holds the phone in his hand for a moment, staring at it, then puts it on his forehead. It vibrates again.

**can I tell you what I’ve been thinking?**

**k**

**I was thinking about stories**

**?**

**how sometimes we use them as communication**

**I can’t talk about violence  
but I’ll show you how I feel about it with this story  
I can’t talk about love  
but here are these two lovers instead**

**why are you telling me this?**

**Because  
the person telling the story wants you to feel what they feel  
but it’s not always right  
clumsy  
and you get told what your story is  
instead of the other way around**

**no one can feel what you feel**

The typing bubble dots flash―one, two, and three, one, two, and three―over and over again, but no words come through. Isak thinks the conversation’s over, but as soon as he plugs in the charger, the phone vibrates in his hands.

**You’re right  
I know that  
I should know that  
I have a lot of people telling me what I feel  
I guess I’ve grown used to it**

The typing bubble persists, then,

**Emma seems into you**

Isak is tempted to continue this, but he has some sense of self-preservation.

**I need to go to sleep**

The three dots, over and over, dot, dot, dot. Repeating and repeating.

**See you tomorrow?**

***thumbs up emoji***

**Sorry one more thing  
are you going to Julian Dahl’s pre-party?**

**no  
maybe  
you?**

**Maybe  
want to bike over together after rehearsal?**

**okay**

**Bring yours so we can race**

Isak looks to the side, and taps his phone against his chest.

**sure**

**Awesome**

**awesome**

He can’t sleep. Hope returns, faintly, but he’s wary of it now, rolling over on his belly and holding his pillow self-protectively. If you don’t know what you want, you don’t know to miss it; and time feels different, now that Even’s happened. The exhaustion too, it’s harder to slog through. It used to be easier to pretend around everyone, his friends especially. But now, he struggles. Everything is fake, fake, fake.

Real is when he’s at rehearsal, pretending he’s in love. The acting doesn’t enter into it; it really isn't difficult. It’s understanding that he’s free to be in love with Romeo, and no one will question that love. There is no judgment, there is no shame.

There are many different versions of the R+J balcony scene on Youtube, and Isak watches a dozen of them without the sound. Instead, he plays other music over his headphones and says his lines along to the action. None of the Juliets match his; they don’t have his impatience.

His phone buzzes in his hand.

He can’t help but look.

**I forgot to tell you  
I was thinking about parallel universes**

Isak receives two images, in quick succession―photographs of pencil drawings. The first shows Isak, at the doors to the tram, Jonas’s snapback turned round so that the _Obey_ seems like a directive straight from the back of his head, his hair snaking out underneath the brim. The second is from a little further away, as if seen from the tram―Isak’s backpack, and his skinny legs, walking away.

Before Isak can decide whether or not he’s going to reply, another text appears.

**same time, a completely different universe**

The first drawing is of Isak's eyes, wide with big, fat pupils. In them, there's the vague reflection of another face.

The second is of his parted lips, from a closer vantage point than even the first. At the corner of his mouth―the unmistakable curl of a grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **canon-adjacent content warning: passing mention of sex courtesy of Eskild, near accidental outing**  
>   
>  songs for this chapter are:
> 
> _Lonely Life_ by Miike Snow  
> (reminders)  
>  _Angel_ by Gavin Friday  
> (the balcony scene)  
>  _You Look So Fine_ by Garbage  
> (Holy Palmers)  
>  _And I was a Boy from School_ by Tears for Fears  
> (friends+, outro)  
>    
> soundtrack can be listened to **[here](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLWfM4lhzgKQWns3CZDlp5Y_NFhjrQyaVI)**


	5. Try it and see

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ride to the party with me instead, then you can take my bike back to yours. I’ll get a lift home.”
> 
> “With Sonja,” Isak states flatly. He can make statements, too. Stretch out her name so that it sounds like two pebbles dropped into a deep well, one right after the other: Son. Ja. “She’s pretty.”
> 
> It’s true, she is pretty.
> 
> So is Even. Somewhere in another universe Isak would say it out loud.
> 
> “I want to talk with you some more,” Even whispers. “Is that okay?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see end notes for mild canonish content warnings

Friday speeds past, and Isak feels as if he’s racing through it. Classes whizz by; forty minutes fly like ten. He sees Emma and her crew in the courtyard, so he spins right around and goes back inside. He does the same to Jonas, who’s standing near their lockers, scratching the crown of his head. Isak won’t see him at rehearsal, Jonas hasn’t been called. He checked.

At rehearsal, he tries something new. He leaves the script on Chris’s desk and raises his eyebrows at her. She nods, wordlessly sliding the script to the corner. Then he gets onstage and actually acts. He only needs prompting once or twice; the rest of the time, he soars. Part of the high is the reaction from his scene partners, who act like they’re all waking up. Rehearsal ends with Juliet beseeching the Nurse to console her, and there’s real anguish in his voice when he pleads to Magnus’s paler-than-usual face, “Comfort me. Counsel me.”

Nothing from anyone. The theater is quiet.

“Alack, alack, that heaven should practice stratagems upon so soft a subject as myself.”

Isak rarely cries. Juliet needs to; he gives her his previously-unshed tears. That’s all there is for a bit—Juliet weeping and held-breath silence from the rest of the house.

He wipes at his eyes with his wrists. “What sayst thou? Hast thou not a word of joy? Some comfort, Nurse.” Isak holds himself, arms tight across his chest. Magnus flings his book to the side and runs to him, but it’s too late. Juliet doesn’t want the Nurse’s empty reassurances anymore. They’re only lies. Neither the body nor the mind believes.

The applause is louder than the day before, and Isak smiles, legs wobbly and feeling high. He gets why theatre nerds are so into this shit now. It’s being looked at without being looked at. It’s receiving praise without being known. It feels amazing.

Even beams at him from the front of the stage. Isak avoids his eyes. That’s new, too.

Isak doesn’t want to leave yet. Luckily, the theater doors lock automatically so it won't matter if he's the last one out. He dawdles in the back dressing rooms until he’s certain even Chris and Even have left for Julian’s pre-party, then returns to the theater and turns the pool lights back on. He walks back onto the stage and watches the play of lights across his hands; removes his hoodie so that the rings of light can move over the pale bellies of his bare arms. Isak reaches for the wall that separates him from the audience and slides his hand against that invisible surface.

He's so alone.

“Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!”

Even’s in the back, an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth.

“There’s no smoking in the theatre.”

“I know.”

Isak isn’t sure what to feel anymore. He longs for Even. He’s self-aware enough to realize that. But Even’s got a girlfriend, which, of course he does. Why wouldn’t he? He’s himself.

With the lights off and the projector on, Isak can’t really make out Even’s expression. He’s an outline of shoulders and hair.

“Why are you still here?”

“I thought we were going to the party together. What about you?”

Isak thinks: _I wanted time away from the group, away from you, but here you are._ “I wanted to look at the lights.”

Neither of them speak. Even is in the dark and Isak can't read him at all.

“Sonja and I have been together since we were...fourteen.”

He doesn’t know why Even’s telling him this, but he doesn’t want to hear it. “Okay.”

“But people change. And it’s not the same anymore. But I can’t. I can’t just break up with her. It’s complicated.”

The space is silent and eventually, Isak murmurs, “Okay,” because Even seems to expect a response. Which is bullshit, Even owes him nothing.

Isak picks up his hoodie and puts it back on, and Even sits in the audience, watching. This is a strange play. Possible titles:

  * Isak Zips Up His Hoodie
  * Isak is a Homewrecker
  * Or Maybe Just Not a Good Person Because He Doesn’t Really Care If He is a Homewrecker or Not
  * That’s a Lie, Says the Liar
  * Isak is Impossibly Tired and Confused AF



“Besides, I don’t want her to think it’s about her glass eye.”

Isak looks up sharply. “What?”

“Yeah, Sonja’s got a glass eye. You haven’t noticed? She lost her eye in a childhood accident, playing with a slingshot. I heard it was gruesome.”

“Oh.” Isak feels terrible for the girl. And guilty too. “Fuck. That’s awful.”

“It’s hard to tell, but when she gets tired, her eyes go in different directions, and I don’t know which one to look at. I mean, it’s funny, but awful. She’s very sensitive about it.”

Even gets up, moving into a small patch of blue light, and his expression, wide-eyed and casual, makes Isak realize he’s being had.

“Oh...fuck you.”

“She can’t drive because her depth perception is fucked, and uh, we can’t see 3D movies, either. Well, that only sucks for me-”

“You’re horrible. How can you joke about that?”

Even’s grin is far too sweet for the joke. “Wait, I was getting to the part where I tell you about the eye patch she wears at night.”

“No.” Isak bites his lip; Even doesn’t deserve a smile.

“It matches her pajamas.”

Isak keeps shaking his head, but he’s fully laughing.

“Whatever happened to ‘Yes, and...’, Isak? I thought we were a team!”

“Oh my God, you’re such a dick.”

Even laughs in the dark, standing up and reaching over to turn off the projector. “Maybe so, but I have weed, and I intend to share it with you. We’ll smoke this on the way to the black-and-white party.”

They get to the exit at the same time, and Isak shakes his head. “I'm sorry but―I wasn’t going to go, I didn’t bring my bike.”

“You’re not going to the party?”

“No.”

The lights shut off, and they’re half in the theater-dark, and half in the light of the hall. Isak’s sneaker has a tear in the front. He’d just bought these a month or two ago. He should keep track of average shoe lifespans, or construct an elegant experiment to see how their endurance varies, depending on the subject’s level of personal stress. Because perhaps shoes reflect inner lives. A stressed person will have a distressed shoe. Isak is most distressed. Soon he’ll have no sneakers left.

“How far are you from Julian’s place?” Even asks.

“Too far to walk.”

Even’s sneaker taps his. Isak doesn’t look up. He doesn’t dare to. Even isn’t coming any closer but he keeps their feet touching, toe-to-toe.

“Have you ever watched Krzysztof Kieślowski’s _Dekalog_?”

“Nope. Is it on Netflix?”

Isak can feel Even’s grin beaming down on him before looking up. They both have their fill of looking.

“Come. We’ll sit and smoke this outside.”

Despite his nervous apprehension, he follows Even’s long strides and sits with him on a school bench, cupping his hands around the lighter’s blue flame until the spliff is lit. They silently pass it back and forth. Isak takes long pulls; he doesn’t even want to exhale, he wants to keep the smoke inside until it blurs everything. Even is uncharacteristically quiet, and when he finally speaks, his voice sounds rougher, almost impatient.

“You were going to take the tram home?”

“Yeah.”

“Ride to the party with me instead, then you can take my bike back to yours. I’ll get a lift home.”

“With Sonja,” Isak states flatly. He can make statements, too. Stretch out her name so that it sounds like two pebbles dropped into a deep well, one right after the other: _Son. Ja._ “She’s pretty.”

It’s true, she _is_ pretty.

So is Even. Somewhere in another universe Isak would say it out loud.

“I want to talk with you some more,” Even whispers. “Is that okay?”

 _Okay_. The word of the day.

“Why is this a ‘black-and-white’ party anyway?” Isak asks, noticing that Even’s in all-white underneath his hoodie and jacket. Isak happens to be in black jeans but his shirt is red.

“It’s the color scheme for _Julius Caesar_.”

“That’s...simplistic. Nothing’s ever just black-and-white.”

“True. Perhaps that’s the point?”

Isak balances on the back of Even’s bicycle, listening to Even shout over his shoulder about a Polish TV series, in which some pervert kid likes to watch his neighbor get off, and she knows he’s doing it. “But it’s not about that, it’s really about the need for connection, not sex,” Even says, and Isak can’t help himself. He falls deeper. The fine blond hairs on the back of Even’s long neck, and the way he pedals to standing as they weave down the street. The low-but-lively sound of his voice when he talks about love. Isak knows Even is smiling because, again, he can feel it. And it could be the weed, but Isak thinks the way to Julian’s—a route he’s traveled hundreds of times, since it goes past his apartment and towards his old home—has a brand-new, heady luster. Lit-up apartment windows promise stories, and passersby smile over secret histories; there’s all this life. The Akerselva rushes away from them in the opposite direction, glittery and winding, dividing the city as it eventually makes its way below ground, to join the sea.

Isak is in so much trouble, but it feels…wonderful. It’s exhilarating to feel so much over someone he can’t have, but it’s also the absolutely fucking worst, in a way that swings right back to good. Like he’s alive. He’s glad Even can’t see him, because if Isak’s face is as transparent as Even says it is, then he would know that Isak’s in love with him. And that couldn’t be good.

Once they arrive at the pre-party, Even hops off the bike and leans in to brush something from Isak’s hair—an insect, he murmurs. Isak breathes shallowly, and refuses to freeze. He’s done with being startled by Even’s proximity. Even strides inside without remarking on the change, as if it’s commonplace.

Of course, Isak follows Even in. Of course, he stays. Maybe he nurses a beer and listens to ten painful minutes of Magnus striking out with Vilde, of all people. Maybe Eskild is there, standing next to Noora; Eskild is clad in all-white, and Noora’s in black. Maybe he talks to Emma, who is as keen as always, touching his arm and back, but he’s so lonely, all of a sudden, he nearly doesn’t mind. She could be charming, she could be, with her good nature, and funny, stop-start swoop of a voice. He tries to break her apart into pleasing characteristics, so that maybe he could want her a little. But ‘maybe’ doesn’t work, after all; not with her, not this time, not now.

Even holds court on a corner sofa, one arm slung over the back, impossibly-long legs crossed, ankle jiggling on his thigh. Sonja sits at his side, turning her head this way and that, adopting exaggerated listening poses toward anyone who approaches. The king and his queen.

Isak walks away from the sight.

It’s a huge, old apartment, a duplex with two balconies. Julian’s parents have gone abroad, which is something they do often, judging by the photos around the room. The colors, the furniture, even the books look expensive and arty. There are paintings on every jewel-toned wall; not cluttered, but placed precisely so. Glossy book spines gleam on tall bookshelves. Isak watches where he puts his beer, careful not to leave rings. Or any trace of himself.

There’s a fish tank wall in the hallway; dividing one side of the space from the other. Brightly colored fish swim in and out of the aquarium coral, and Isak leans down to gaze at one in particular—it’s electric blue with a streak of white, and larger than his open hand with all fingers outstretched. Its black eye fixes on him, and it stops moving when Isak brings his fingertips up to the glass. The fish’s fins flutter slightly before it swims away.

His phone buzzes. It’s a photo of himself staring into the tank, his mouth hanging open, and his hair a wind-swept mess from the bike ride over. Isak types his response without looking up for the source of the picture, attempting to play it cool.

**such a fucking stalker**

**Would it be ultra nerdy if I went over and looked at you from the other side?**

**try it and see**

He waits, peering into the tank, drawn to a tiny treasure chest inside that pops open, displaying miniature pearls and baubles, including a little crown. Then Even’s face appears just past it, on the other side of the glass. Those blue, blue eyes look at Isak like it’s the first time he’s seen him today, with enormous, uncomplicated joy. Even bobs his eyebrows and smiles even wider. It’s then that Isak realizes he’s doing the same. He doesn’t know who grinned first. It doesn’t matter.

Isak pulls his phone out.

**nerd**

Even laughs and starts typing.

Before Isak can see the response, Emma appears at his elbow, yelling his name. She drags him back to the massive living room; the part where all the furniture has been pushed back so that people can dance. The lights are off, and everyone in white glows in the dark. Even follows; Isak catches glimpses of Even’s t-shirt when he turns his head, and it feels like he’s forgetting something he needs to remember―like he was about to say something important. Emma yammers on and on about Eskild dancing with “a hula hoop!” And Isak is still really fucking high, because he moves without protest. Not stumbling precisely, but something like it; feet are too close together and off-beat.

On the makeshift dance floor, Eskild and Chris are sharing a hula hoop, but they’re not actually using it; they’re just holding it around their waists. Both of them have little green, yellow, and pink dots painted on their faces―they glow, as well. Eva and Noora are with them, dancing also. Eva is particularly good with the hula hoop―gracefully, she moves the hoop up her body, around her neck, then over her arm. The effect is slow and hypnotic. Isak had forgotten that Eva, for all her sloppy carelessness, was a dance nut. He’d gone with her to one of her classes once when he was bored, hot, and avoiding home. He misses that summer, right after middle school. It was infinitely less complicated than life is now.

Though maybe he's misremembering. Perhaps the reason Eva and he were close that summer is because they were both pining for the same boy, so they could bring Jonas up in conversation, again and again, without ever feeling like it was an unwelcome topic. They were both stuck there―waiting and wanting. Until one of them wasn't.

“She's so pretty!” Emma shouts in his ear, gesturing toward Eva with her chin.

Isak nods, and behind Emma's head, he sees Even, on the couch with Sonja, staring in Isak's direction.

When Chris spots Isak, she blows on an LED whistle around her neck, dropping their hoop and hopping over. Chris whisper-yells as the music booms around them and zips open a small, white purse, which is slung across her chest. Isak can’t hear her, the music is too loud, so he doesn’t know to say no when she brings her hand up and there’s some kind of hot-pink paint tube in her fist. She squirts a dot of the stuff on her thumb and attempts to wipe it on his cheekbone; he waves her hand away. From the corner of his eye, he sees Even whispering in Sonja’s ear. Emma happily takes his place and allows her face to get painted; Chris puts a big pink dot on her nose. Even’s watching, so Isak laughs and puts his arm around Emma.

“Do you like it?” Emma yells.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Even stand up. “Yeah.”

Isak hates dancing, but he can shuffle in place well enough, and he manages to not stumble as Emma moves, shrieking words he doesn’t hear. Across the way, Even’s full-body-swaying with Sonja, and the next song’s drums pound in Isak’s head. He ogles Even and Sonja as they move.

They look good together, like a real movie couple. Even must think so, too. He must text her songs to play on her trip home. Songs to play while she lies in bed. Songs that tell her everything he’s feeling, so their words can linger on in her head. Only with her, Even means it in a real way. Those flurries of red hearts he sends her are true _I love you_ s. Sonja reaches for Even’s face, and those two perfect heads synchronize and meet.

Isak moves closer to Emma so he doesn’t have to pretend he’s looking at her anymore. With his body pressed tighter against her, she finally stops speaking, and lifts her head to kiss him. His eyes don’t move from Even and Sonja, and he feels like he’s moving underwater, slow, and weightless, and drunk―dragged down by the beat.

Even kisses Sonja, and Isak imagines himself in her place, consciously mimicking the angle. Even’s head angles left, Isak’s to the right, and Emma’s mouth is the wrong shape, but he’s good at pretending. He can make do with little.

Even’s eyes open and stare right at him, bright blue even in this dim light, and his kisses with Sonja get more heated. Isak lets his head angle further. Even doesn’t break eye contact, and either this is his way of rubbing Isak’s delusions in his face, or it’s the complete opposite―it’s really Isak he’s kissing, not her. Isak’s head he grabs by the back of the neck. Isak’s pulse, jumping under his tongue. Isak’s thigh between his legs.

Isak has to close his eyes because he can’t look anymore. It makes his chest ache to breathe. Everything’s all wrong. Everything is too right.

The song ends, and Isak breaks away to find a bathroom. He pisses, washes his hands for too long, splashes some water on his face, and stares dumbly at his reflection. There are two hot pink stripes on his cheeks from Emma smearing her nose on him. His face is red, and so are his lips, as if they’ve been kissed. He has barely been kissed; he’s not the hot woman that the story requires. He’s nobody’s dream. Not even Emma’s, who clung to him as if he were someone else. An entirely different boy than the one in the mirror.

He wipes the color off his face and rinses his mouth with water, over and over again.

When he steps out of the bathroom, Even is there, and it doesn’t surprise him. Isak steels himself for whatever he’s about to say.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

Even looks at him seriously, chewing his lip. “I’m sorry.”

Isak shrugs. “Okay.”

“We were interrupted. I wanted to finish.”

“Finish what?” Even has a burst of acne on the right side of his forehead. It doesn’t make him less attractive, Isak notes glumly.

“The scene this week. I hadn’t expected everyone to come early. I didn’t ask them to, you know. That just happened. I swear.”

“Okay.” From the living room, a familiar song plays and Isak wonders if Even requested it. "I believe you."

Even swallows. “We can do it now. Let’s do it here. Can we?”

Isak has no idea what Even’s talking about. But once more he repeats, “Okay,” and follows when Even takes off down the hall, striding purposefully like he’s been here before. He probably has. Every cast member’s important in Even’s world.

They go into a room lined with bookshelves, and while there’s a couch, Isak slides to the floor and sits with his back against it. Even sits alongside, lights another joint, and passes it to him. Isak takes a drag, and coughs before handing it back. Even takes another hit before pinching it out. Isak waves the smoke away from his face, suddenly nervous.

“Do you think a kiss can save someone from despair?”

Isak regards Even, who is near but not close enough to touch, and directs his answer to Even’s jean-clad knee. “Yes.”

“You were thinking that, too? When we did the scene in the theater?”

“Yes.” He was.

“I knew it.” Even turns to him, a small, excited smile on his face. “I could see it.”

It’s a beautiful smile. What else can Even see in him? Can he see what Isak thinks of his smile? His eyes? His mouth? Isak licks his lower lip.

Even is all smoke. “What do you think? Are you good?”

He nods, the weed making him feel like he’s underwater. “I’m high as fuck. I can barely move. But I can go,” he waves his hands in the air. “...whenever.”

“Me too.”

Isak attempts to stand up, and Even takes him by the elbow before he can, turning him slowly. His eyes open wider, and it feels heavy—like weighted stage curtains rising.

“Then move not, while my prayer’s effect I take. Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged.”

Even’s kiss is a soft, tentative press. Then less tentative. Far less. They move together, an undulation―slow, from hips to collarbones.

When the wave of their movement ebbs, Isak answers right to Even’s mouth; words brush against the corner of his smile. “Then have my lips the sin that they have took.”

What he would like is to undress Even. Not completely, just his shirt, so that Isak could touch something more than just his lips―which are wonderful, but aren’t enough to quell the burning in his body, in his head.

The hair at the nape of Even’s neck is slightly damp, and Isak grabs him there, pulls him closer, then spreads his fingers, reaching through the strands to the back of his head.

They are not on the bench, or the stage. They are on their knees, the carpet beneath them is not plush, and is the door locked? Dimly, Isak hears music from the living room, and laughter. Even’s mouth is at his neck, jaw, cheek. He’s the only thing holding him upright. It is a beautiful drowning.

“Sin from thy lips?” Even pulls back and rubs a thumb along Isak’s cheekbone. “O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again.”

Isak gives his assent with a fervent nod, and opens his mouth to the kiss.

Sin is not the word for this. It feels pure and good. Isak doesn’t want to say the next line, because speaking will end it. Even’s kisses get smaller, contained but still sweet, like they’re about to end, and Isak chases them, knowing he’s gone too long without acting, pushed too far.

“You kiss by the book,” Isak whispers, and reaches up tentatively to brush his fingertips against Even’s bottom lip. To mark the page and bring the prayer to a close.

Even doesn’t pull back right away. When he does, it’s slow, almost reluctant. His eyes are soft on his.

“Was that okay?”

“The scene work?” Isak nods and coughs into his elbow. “Yes, made sense. Thank you.”

“No, Isak. Was what we did okay?” Even places his hand on the side of Isak’s neck. Isak tries to act as if he can’t feel it.

“Yes, of course. We finished the scene.”

Even’s eyes have an intense shine, and suddenly, Isak thinks Even is angry with him. Or upset.

“Why? Did I not do it right?” Isak purses his lips, self-consciously. He knows Even isn’t talking about kisses, he means acting, but Isak’s brain can’t help but misinterpret. “I’m sorry if I let you down, or made you...sorry you cast me.”

“Isak.” Even smiles, shaking his head. “No.”

“Oh, cool.”

“Are you sorry I cast you?”

He isn’t. Buried under the strata of his high, Isak is elated to have been Even’s choice in something, but that’s not chill to say.

“Isak?”

“No, Even, I. No.”

Even is still close, and his lips are plush and pink and maybe-Isak’s. It’s a silly thought, stupid, but maybe-true. Maybe. Even moves closer again, putting his forehead against Isak’s. “Did you feel it, too?”

“I did. I think so.” He pauses, thinking how to not make this weird. “It’s easier with you than with Bille.”

Whatever’s on Isak’s face causes Even to groan into his hands before sinking bonelessly to the floor. Isak goes down too, rolling onto his own stomach, resting his cheek on top of his folded arms, suddenly exhausted.

“Fuck.” Even laughs, long and loose. “I’m not doing this right.”

“I’m sorry.” Isak doesn’t know what to think. He’s confused as shit, but also in something like heaven. Because maybe not getting Even’s point will mean more one-on-one rehearsals; and there’s a line, there, between being a good person and a bad one, and he is sliding over it. Not for the first time, either. His mamma is right; everyone's a sinner. He just really wants to kiss Even again.

Out in the hallway, Isak hears someone coming, and while it’s not panicked or spurred by panic, Isak rolls away from Even and his heat. It’s too fast because he miscalculates; rolling once, twice, three times, until he hits the long closet on the opposite side of the study.

“Ow, fuck.”

Even cackles and claps. The door opens.

“Your head went _conk_! Like a cartoon!”

Isak pictures Even’s laugh as _HA HA HA_ , like Even laughing via text, which is ridiculous since he is actually rolling on the ground laughing his ass off. There’s an abbreviation for this.

“Ugh, Even. LOL. L-O-fucking-L. Use it sometime.”

Even’s laugh is now soundless, and he’s kicking his legs on the ground, clutching his stomach.

“What’s going on here?”

It’s only Magnus.

“I just whacked myself in the face with this closet door, what does it fucking look like?”

Isak turns to glare at Magnus. Even’s face freezes momentarily at Isak’s outburst before he collapses back into laughter.

“It’s not that funny, Even.”

“You’re so wonderful, Isak. Isn’t he wonderful?”

Magnus eyes dart between the two of them. “Yeah, he’s great. Were you guys smoking up? Can I have some?”

The joint is relit, and soon enough, Magnus is stretched out on the floor also, asking Even about the song he asked Julian to play in the living room before taking off to smoke.

“It’s from the _Romeo + Juliet_ soundtrack,” Isak answers, while checking through his phone. A handful of notifications―texts from Emma and Jonas, and both are looking for him. He ignores them, placing the phone screen-side down. It’s hot under his hand.

“That’s right,” Even beams at him. “You recognized it?”

He means from before, and Isak shakes his head. “Not right away. Took a minute.”

Magnus sits up, brushing his hair out of his face. “What’s it called?”

“ _Angel_. I'm thinking of playing it at the start of the party, where Romeo sees Juliet for the first time. Juliet with golden leaves in her hair. I wanted to hear it during an actual party...” Even trails off, raising his eyebrows at Isak.

While looking at _me_ , Isak finishes in his head. The song, the fish tank―Isak knows Even must be in movie nerd heaven. “Mister Director,” he mumbles to himself.

“You have to text me the name again, man. I was into it.”

“Certainly, I’ll do it now.”

Even sends a text to Magnus, crossing his long legs at the ankle. His socks have drawings on them that Isak can’t make out. Ever aware, Even raises his pants cuffs by pinching a bit of fabric at his thigh, and there is so much to look at before Isak’s eyes return to the socks, which are patterned with umbrellas and raindrops. What a fucking dork. He tells Even so. “You,” Isak points. “Are a fucking dork.” Even laughs, his shoulders hitching up.

“Are you going to use that ‘Angel’ song in the play, Even?”

“I think so.” Even answers Magnus, but continues looking at Isak, suddenly serious. “But I'm still deciding. Trying to figure out what works and when.”

They should be grateful that Magnus is in his own weedscape and doesn’t notice how they can’t stop staring at each other. Even swallows, and there’s a long, slow movement of his long, pale neck, which is dotted with birthmarks and probably soft to the touch. Even must still be cold from their bike ride, there’s so much exposed skin. Where’s his scarf? Isak will warm him there too, before he leaves the party―warm him everywhere. Place his hands on his neck and bring him closer.

Even really does have an extraordinarily long neck.

The laughter comes unbidden, rising out of Isak like a coughing fit.

“What is it?” Magnus sits up as Isak laughs uncontrollably. Even brings one knee in and rests his elbow on it, one leg out and smiling.

Isak tries to explain. “I just realized-”

“What?”

He frowns for a moment, licking his teeth slowly. “Giraffes...don’t have arms. They're all thorax.” The laughter returns and won’t stop.

“Huh?” Magnus looks helplessly at Even, who smiles indulgently at Isak. “I don’t get it.”

Isak continues laughing, until the door opens again and Emma enters, followed by Sonja, who immediately crouches by Even, whispering heatedly. Even’s eyes harden as he listens to her, and Isak can just make out him saying, “You’re not my minder.” It takes all of Isak’s willpower not to belly-crawl over to them, so he can hear everything.

He hates himself for that, a little. Once a snake, always a snake. But also, he’s exhilarated by how little remorse he feels. Maybe there’s trouble in the kingdom.

“We’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Emma murmurs, flopping down alongside him and making him jump. She scratches the inside of his wrist with a blunt fingernail, leaving a wobbly, white line of dry skin there.

“Hmm? Sorry, I needed a break from the noise.”

Emma nods. “I was talking to your friend Jonas on the roof terrace. He’s super-cool.”

“He is.”

“He thought you went out on a beer run with Even.”

Isak raises his eyebrows. “That’s...a good guess.”

Across the room, Sonja continues whispering at Even, who stares fixedly at the beer in his hand. Magnus sits next to them with his mouth wide open.

“My parents are out of town. Do you want to come by and have some drinks?”

He’d forgotten Emma was here. She’s nice. Isak barely remembers her mouth, their kiss wasn’t long ago. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Even and Sonja stand up. “No, I don’t think so. Thanks.”

“But my parents aren’t home.”

Isak smiles, or tries to. “You’d said. Sorry, I need to go straight home.” He starts laughing again and _fuck, fuck, fuck_.

He watches Magnus get up to leave the room and scrambles to exit as well, casting a quick glance back at Even, who’s still in heated conversation with Sonja. Isak waves ‘bye’, not knowing whether Even sees it.

Out in the main area, people are getting ready to go to other parties, and Isak weaves through the bodies, pausing only to nod Jonas, who raises an inquisitive eyebrow. Isak shrugs and keeps walking, grabbing his coat and hat on the way out. He makes his way down the stairs quickly, and after he collects Even’s bike on the side of the building, he walks it slowly toward the park-side of the street.

“Isak. Wait.”

Emma is running up to him; her sweater sleeves are pulled over her hands, and she’s hugging her elbows.

“Why are you running away?”

She looks furious. Isak scratches his cheek. “I’m just going home.”

“What is this? What are we doing?”

He almost says, _nothing_ because that’s what it is. He’s got nothing for her. Instead, he shrugs helplessly. “I’m. I don’t know.”

Isak does know.

“You kissed me. Why did you kiss me?”

His nose itches. He means to answer, he really does, but he winds up scratching his nose and shrugging at the same time, and her face registers it like a slap. Up on the balconies, there are people watching. He’s a jerk, and so lost.

“You’re an asshole.”

That too. He nods. She turns around and goes back inside. Her walk is jerky and sharp.

Isak pushes Even’s bike through the street, not quite in the mood to ride it yet. Ila smells of autumn fires, and the houses glow with the warmth of all those living their lives inside.

He used to live in a house.

Down the street, he stops in front of a lovely gingerbread-style home. There’s a woman visible in one of the windows, sitting, fogging up her glasses with her breath and wiping them with tissues. She’s about his mom’s age, and her hair is similar, dirty-blonde and frizzy, fanning around her face. Dimly, he hears music from inside the house, and she moves her head to it, her lips, too, singing along. He wishes he could hear it more clearly, see if the words mean anything, know her voice.

The wind makes the trees shiver, and he doesn’t know how long he stands there, watching this lady singing in her window; but when she turns her head sideways, to her left, and smiles at someone just out of sight, he thinks he might cry. Because she’s beautiful, then, the way all mothers are beautiful to their children. And he loves his mother—wherever she is, however she is. She is beautiful too, even though she would never love him if she knew who he really was. If she was even capable of listening and understanding his words, godless and plain.

“Hey, there you are.”

 _Fuck._ Isak turns away and wipes at his face quickly. Keeps his eyes down when he says, “Yes, here I am.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Even get closer until he’s standing right next to him, the borrowed bicycle between them. Even’s chest rises and falls rapidly, as if he’s been running, and he pitches forward and back on his feet, moving to silent music. “There’s a song that I love,” he starts, then bites his lip.

Even’s not wearing his coat, either―not even a hoodie. His sleeves are rolled up past his elbows; his arms are pale, and the one closest to Isak has two pinprick freckles near the pulse of his wrist. It’s cool outside, the wind harsh, and Even’s so careless, it fills Isak with a different kind of anger. Not at Even, never Even, just at himself, for being so stupid and careless, too.

“You love a lot of things,” Isak says, without quite knowing what he means.

“I do―some more than others.”

Even’s nose is very pink. Isak removes his coat and hands it to Even, who puts it on over his shoulders with a graceful shrug. His arms stay bare.

“How can you even hear what’s playing?”

“I don’t.” Even glances toward the house. “It’s what I would have them listening to, if I were directing that scene.”

Isak needs to get home, but he’s tethered here, as per usual, by the force of Even’s stare. “Why are you here, Even?”

“I wanted to be with you alone. And talk about the weather.”

“Okay. It’s getting cold, I guess.”

Even smiles, slow and big. “Don’t remember the next line, do you?”

“What?”

Drops start falling on them, barely rain, more of cool, clinging mist. Isak pulls his sweatshirt hood over his snapback. Even’s cheeks are red, too.

“That’s from the song. The song I would play.”

“Is it?” Isak can’t hear any music. He tries to imagine a song he’s never heard.

“It’s for us, not for them.” Even nods back over to the window, but the woman isn’t there any more. “If this were a film, the steadicam shot would start inside that house, and glide out the door to me, standing here looking at you and the camera would circle us slowly as the song gets louder. It might be too on-the-nose, it’s been used before in _Donnie Darko_ , but it works here, too.” Even’s smile turns wistful. “Better, I think.”

Isak sighs and shakes his head. He has no fucking clue what Even’s talking about, but he’s tired and needs to let go. “I thought you were going to the other party.”

“I was.” Even approaches and puts his hand on the bike frame. “But at the light, I got out.”

“What?”

“I told Sonja I had to tell you something.”

“Me?”

“This.”

Even comes closer, and Isak notices how red his lips are as well, how the red seems to seep out past their edges. How they must ache from all that color. Even leans until their foreheads rest together, and Isak closes his eyes.

“I want to kiss you, Isak. Do you want to kiss me?”

Isak nods, says his _yes_ right into Even’s mouth, and then it happens.

He’s careful with Even’s lips, as is Even with his. It is soft, more so than all the previous times. This surprises Isak and burns him up. Each kiss is gentler than the one before it, like a series of quiet promises.

Isak’s body slowly catches up with what’s going on, and his hand comes up slowly to grab Even’s arm where it’s bare. The skin there isn’t cold at all.

Even takes a single step back, but continues to cradle Isak’s neck with his hand, and the press of fingers feels good there. His smile is blinding.

“We’re not rehearsing,” Even says, following the tired tilt of Isak’s head with his own. His laser beam eyes are in full effect. “I’m not rehearsing. Are you?”

“No.”

“This is real. Is it real for you?”

“Real, yes,” Isak repeats and curls towards Even’s forearm. He mouths along the soft belly of it, where the veins sing. He kisses the skin there, then rubs his cheek on it. Even dips his head down, rubbing his cheek on the corner of Isak’s jaw.

“Good, I was worried it was all in my head.”

“You’re so cracked,” Isak laughs, and Even does as well. It’s the kind of laughter that you want to tamp down because it’s too excellent to let out; it needs to be kept.

“I know.”

They kiss again, and in Isak’s hurry to move the bike past them and no longer between, he overshoots. The bike flies forward, before toppling over to the gutter with a loud clatter. A dog barks from behind the large wooden gate of a driveway; the sound is deep, too-close, and all-business. A front yard light comes on, and Isak covers his mouth. “Oh, shit.”

Even giggles, pulling him close to kiss the top of his head. “It’s okay, it’ll be fine.” He walks over to the bike and picks it up, checking out the tires. Isak watches him, fingers pinching his lower lip. He just kissed a boy. _The_ boy. The only one who matters. Even looks up.

“Can I come to yours?” He slides his arms into Isak's coat, zips it closed.

“Yes.”

“Shall we ride? I think it’s gonna start pouring soon.”

It does. The rain is cold and unforgiving, and when they get back to the still-empty flat, their clothes appear dry, but stick to their skin; the faint, wet-dog smell that winter wear gets clings to them as they shift.

“Can I stay?”

It feels like there’s more to that question than Even’s asking, but Isak nods yes anyway, without really hesitating.

Back in his room, they kiss, and Isak closes his eyes against it; their legs bracket one another’s. Both of them are wearing Isak’s clothes now, socks, and sweatpants, and long sleeves. Even’s now-familiar smell is immediate and warm―laundry detergent, pastries, and tobacco from his hand-rolled cigarettes. They kiss, pushing lazily against each other at the hips, at the chest, slow and reverential. It builds and builds, endlessly shifting, like waves in the ocean; their endless bounty.

Afterwards, Isak dreams. He sleeps long enough to dream. Even’s there, too, in his dream. He holds Isak’s hand; the harsh glare of the sun at his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning: canon typical drugs, mild sexuality
> 
> apologies for including the CYG scene nearly exactly as-is but I genuinely couldn't part with it. I'm sorry, I'm a hack.
> 
> songs for this chapter are:
> 
>  _Romeo og Julie, Op. 18_ by Johan Svendsen  
> (Stratagems)  
>  _Familiar_ by Agnes Obel  
> (Teaching the torches)  
>  _Let's Make Love and Listen to Death from Above_ by CSS  
> (Julian's pre-party)  
>  _Hula Hoop_ by Daddy Yankee  
> (The Dancefloor)  
>  _You're Mine_ by Phantogram  
> (CYG echo)  
>  _Tonight_ by Kings of Leon  
> (Real)  
>    
> soundtrack can be listened to **[here](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLWfM4lhzgKQWns3CZDlp5Y_NFhjrQyaVI)**  
>   
>  **Now that we're at the half-way point _Burn Bright_ will be switching to once-a-week updates. Thank you all for reading. <3 **


	6. Wake up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I talk about you all the time.” Even raises both his eyebrows, holding his gaze for a long moment. “Every topic brings me right back to you.”
> 
> Even's not fucking with him, Isak can tell by his eyes. Still, it makes no sense. Isak's a barely strung together sentence of a boy. The idea that Even would think of him connecting to anything seems absurd. “But why?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see end notes for mild canon-typical content warnings

Isak's room is empty when he wakes up, but not for long. The door opens slowly, and Even sneaks in with a glass of water. Isak closes his eyes out of habit, but then opens them, only to find Even grinning at him.

“Were you going to pretend to be asleep?”

“No. Why would I do that?”

Even narrows his eyes and laughs softly. He slides a knee onto the bed and gently bumps it against Isak's arm.

“Umm. I didn’t see anyone out there, but I wasn’t sure...what your situation is with your roommates?”

Isak sits up. “They don’t know.”

He holds his breath and waits.

“Okay.” Even puts the glass down carefully on the nightstand and gets back into bed, gently brushing Isak’s hair away from his face. He looks past him to to Isak's wall. “I see you're familiar with my boy Pushwanger.

“Pushwanger? He frowns, glances over his shoulder to the photo of artist Hariton Pushwagner that's taped on his wall. “Oh, do you mean Terje? Yes, he's a friend.”

“A friend?”

“Well.” Isak shakes his head from side-to-side, as if considering. ”More of an acquaintance?”

“Hmm.” Even purses his lips. His eyes flick up to the wall they're half-propped up on. He takes a long finger and slides it up the length of Cindy Crawford's bare thigh. “What about this lovely lady?”

“Cindy? A dear friend. She wanted more but I had to let her down gently. We're still very close.”

Even laughs. “And Dan Børge Akerø?”

Isak nods happily, licking his lips. “That's my bud, Dan. Such a good listener. Well, all of them are.”

“Do your wall friends give you good advice?”

“Always. They said, 'Isak, we hear there's a new boy at Nissen. You should get to know him. Help him out. He flunked out of his old school probably and needs a hand'.”

Even's smile widens and he winks.

Isak tries to ignore the innuendo but smiles back nonetheless. “So I did.”

“So you did.”

“Clearly you needed a genius in your life.”

A phone buzzes, and they both reach for their phones on the nightstand. Even frowns at his then sighs. “I’m in such trouble.”

“I’m sorry.”

Even shakes his head. “You didn’t do anything.”

Isak thinks he did. But he wills the thought away, gets closer to Even instead. Even turns off his phone, puts his arms around Isak, and speaks again, voice low and hesitant.

“Or are you sorry for this?”

“No.” Isak’s answer is immediate. “No, I’m not. Does she know you're with me?”

“Probably.” Even chews on on the corner of his lip. “She already accuses me of talking about you too much.”

“She does?” Isak tries to sound casual. “Why would she say that?”

“Because it's true.“ He nods and takes Isak's hand.

“Really?“

“I talk about you all the time.” Even raises both his eyebrows, holding his gaze for a long moment. “Every topic brings me right back to you.”

Even's not fucking with him, Isak can tell by his eyes. Still, it makes no sense. Isak's a barely strung together sentence of a boy. The idea that Even would think of him connecting to anything seems absurd. “But why?” 

In lieu of answering, Even asks if he can kiss him, then laughs at whatever face Isak makes in response. Isak shushes him swiftly with his mouth.

The red curtains cause the light in the room to go pink, and time moves as quickly as a film. Even is beautiful and, with him, Isak feels beautiful too.

Is this what it’s like when you want someone, and they want you back? Does it feel raw and too big for your insides?

Or is this more? Something more.

Isak never wants Even to leave. He can stay forever, if he likes.

His fingers trace the collar of Even’s t-shirt, which is actually his shirt, or more accurately, Eskild’s. Travel down the drawstrings of his hoodie; also his, but not anymore. Not after this.

Even nods and stares, those eyes willing Isak to tell him everything, anything. They look at him, then away at the ceiling, as Isak talks about the complex math used in astronomy. They return to him, warmly, as Even listens and balances a cup on his chest, into which he flicks the ashes of his spliff. Isak blows smoke right over Even’s nose, creating clouds. A haze. Isak's nostrils flare to breathe it in.

“Somewhere in another universe, we are not here.”

“No.” Isak shifts.

“No?”

“We always wind up in my bed. It’s always just like this.”

“Sexy.”

Isak sighs and shakes his head as Even laughs his low, low laugh.

“We wind up in bed. With our clothes on.” Isak raises an eyebrow. “Or off.”

Even stops laughing. “Really?”

“All the time, next year, in ten years, or two, or sixteen. Always, you and me in my bedroom. Like this.”

He takes Even’s hand in his, and it feels right, looks right, is right. He squeezes.

“What if we’re pensioners?” Even asks.

Isak grins. “We hobble back to mine. It takes us a little longer. But still we wind up...here.” He pats the duvet.

“I wouldn’t want to wait that long.” Even’s eyes are nearly grave, and Isak sits up, then leans over him, watching his blue gaze soften.

“Well, it’s lucky we’re here now.”

They smoke some more, and Isak’s never been more beautifully stoned. Isak kisses Even’s ankles, and it doesn’t seem weird. He doesn’t feel weird for doing it. Even gestures for him to wiggle further down on the bed, and their lips align again, but in opposite directions. When Isak kisses Even like this, his nose tickles Even’s chin, and he gains a new appreciation for those pillowy lips. Upside-down, they seem mournful in their fullness. Like overripe wild strawberries, when they’re at their sweetest and most red, right before they spoil.

Even tells Isak about his parents, who love him. They know he likes boys as well as girls. He told them last year. He tells them everything. Or tries to. Usually. Even waggles his eyebrows at this, and Isak laughs, though secretly he can’t imagine that for himself. In any universe, his mother is never well, and his father doesn’t stay. There is never anyone to tell.

“I’m glad Eskild isn’t home.”

“How do you know he isn’t?”

“He would have ‘checked in’ by now. He’s like a fucking babysitter.”

“How did you meet him?”

“It’s a stupid story.”

“Did he pick you up?”

Isak frowns, remembering all the weird fucking texts Eskild used to send him on insta before they’d met. “No. I don’t think so. I was wasted at this bar. I had nowhere to go, and he let me come here and sleep in his room.”

“So he _was_ picking you up.” Even’s hand rubs his back, and Isak blinks drowsily.

“No. Eskild. Is a lot. But.”

Isak thinks about Eskild sprawled out next to him on the bed, swiping right on Grindr or whatever you do on that app, and babbling about Temptation Island or some dumb show. Isak has never worried about him being in his space; it’s just Eskild. He’s safe.

“He wasn’t picking me up. He felt sorry for me. I don’t really remember.” Isak does remember—he embarrassed himself by puking right next to Eskild’s shoes.

Even raises an eyebrow. “Hmm.”

“I was pretty fucking drunk. So, you know...blah, blah, blah. Here I am.”

“You’re a natural storyteller, Isak.”

Isak laughs and doesn’t blush when he slides up to Even; nudges him to move his face, so Isak can get at his neck.

They kiss all day. Stop to eat one of Linn’s frozen pizzas. Kiss some more. Isak’s lips memorize Even’s. He listens to him and learns. Isak’s hand slips under Even’s shirt, and Even gasps. It feels so thrilling, Isak wants to laugh from nerves and excitement, but he doesn’t because he’s not alone. Here’s another person, and he’s never done this, been with someone that he’s so aware of. The touches keep shifting from easy tenderness to hunger. Their communication is constant, and the answer is always yes. Yes to Even’s ribs and slim hips. To the easy shimmying down of sweatpants to mid-thighs. To soft thighs and strong hands. Even’s hands are large. It’s messy, and Isak’s left breathless―breathlessly messy.

When the coast is clear, they pad into the kitchen to get some water and resume their conversation. Isak tells Even about deep brain stimulators, and Even actually picks up his phone to type notes because he wants to look up what Isak’s saying.

“I want to know what you know.”

The water is cold, and it cools his lips. They return to the bedroom, and Isak unzips Even’s hoodie, pushing it off his shoulders and keeping his hands there. It’s slow, the slide of his thumbs on Even’s skin. Even’s skin goes splotchy where he presses, showing the line of bone underneath.

Isak falls asleep with his head on Even’s chest. Wakes up by himself on Sunday. There’s a drawing on his pillow, two comic panels. One is a cartoonish version of Isak in a snapback, in bed all by himself. He is joined by a cartoonish Even in the second one, a caption saying, “Love is heavy and light, bright and dark, hot and cold, sick and healthy, asleep and awake-”

Even writes his k's with a little flourish. Like they're dancing.

He is incredibly, happily awake.

Around 18.00, after snacking and daydreaming about Even, a text arrives:

**Old souls we found a new religion  
Now we're swimming in that sin, a baptism  
Peach color skies we feel the sunrise  
And two long stages discover salvation**

**Coffee by Miguel  
listen to it**

**yes herr director**

**Too dictatorial?**

**it’s chill**

**Makes me think of you and because Shook Ones part 2 isn’t exactly romantic though I can picture you walking to it**

**???**

**Mobb deep?**

**‘Cause there’s no such thing as halfway crooks  
They scared to death  
They scared to look  
They shook**

**don’t know it**

**I have so many songs to play for you I’m never gonna stop**

**then don’t**

The rest of Sunday is productive. He does laundry. Goes to the supermarket to replenish Linn’s frozen-pizza stash. Isak catches his reflection in a shop window and thinks the image is wrong. Even should be there, too. He takes a photo of himself and sends it to Even. It’s delivered, but not read.

The next morning, it’s still unread.

Time feels emptier without Even present.

His 11.00 class gets out early, and he waits outside of Even’s English class. Even isn’t there. Jens and Hiro haven’t seen him, either. Isak’s glad that asking about him doesn’t seem too weird. Even’s their director; they all want to know how he’s doing.

**you okay? nobody seen you at school**

Again the text remains unread.

Even doesn’t show at rehearsal, either, and Chris runs it, telling them to review the blocking for Act III and IV, which they do with a dull efficiency. Even the music selections do nothing to liven the atmosphere; everyone plods. This includes Isak, who keeps peering out into the dark of the theater and missing his cues.

After rehearsal, there are announcements. Emma has left the production, and Oda Rassmussen, another first-year, will step in as Paris’s Page and fill her other roles. No explanation is given for Emma’s sudden exit, but Isak guesses that it’s his fault.

He brought his own bike to school, and he rides it over to Even’s after rehearsal. Isak doesn’t ring the doorbell, but he looks up, counting up to sixth floor windows that are probably Even’s and peering for shadows. He texts.

**missed you at rehearsal  
feel better**

The ride home is bitterly cold, and his fingers burn from the wind.

Noora is home when he gets there, whispering with Eskild. The two of them turn to look at Isak when he walks in, the movement of their heads as precise and creepy as automatons.

“Good rehearsal?”

“Yeah,” Isak shrugs off his jacket. “Everything okay?”

Noora widens her eyes and nods. She’s not wearing her usual red lipstick, and looks like a kid in oversized pajamas. Isak doesn’t know much about Noora. Sometimes he catches her staring at him contemplatively before quickly looking away. 

“We were just having some Chrysanthemum tea. Would you like some?”

He unties his shoes and slips them off, “No, thanks.”

Eskild sidles up to him. “Are you sure? Look.” He angles his teacup towards Isak. It looks like water with a big flower inside.

“Yeah, tea’s not my thing.”

His roommates share a glance and sip at the same time. Normally, Isak would say _what the fuck_ but something inside him tells him not to ask. He presses his lips together.

“Your friend recommended it to us.”

Isak raises his eyebrow and fights against the cold, shivery feeling in his chest. “Friend?”

“Even. I spoke to him in the kitchen on Sunday morning. I was just getting home from a rather polite orgy at this man’s apartment, which was just completely overrun with mirrors; they were in the ceilings, the closets, I have no idea-”

Noora coughs. “Sorry. You mentioned the kitchen.”

“Oh yes, EVEN. He was making himself a tea, one of Noora’s. He didn’t know it was hers. He was very polite about it, apologetic―such a gentleman. And lovely to talk to. That deep voice. SO tall.” Eskild fans himself. “I’m used to being the tallest so well done, him. Do you know how tall he is? 1.92? 1.93? I’ve a kind of gift. It’s 1.92, isn’t it? I know I’m right. Say it. Say I’m right.”

All that comes out of Isak's mouth is a dry _eeeh_. He shrugs and moves towards his room.

“Even brought some tea over this afternoon,” Noora says mildly, and it makes him stop dead in his tracks.

“You weren’t at rehearsal?” Before he’s done, Noora’s already shaking her head.

“Even brought this tea,” Eskild smiles. It’s a soft smile, kind, and while Isak knows it’s genuine, he’s stuck in panic mode and can only manage a jerky little shrug in response.

“Noora says he’s your director for _Romeo and Juliet_?”

The teacup is still tilted his way; water the color of straw and that flower at the bottom. Nonsensically, Isak pictures himself miniaturized, lying on top of it and drowning.

“Yeah, he is...that.”

“You didn't tell me you were playing Juliet, Isak.”

A cell phone rings, and the three of them look at one another, then their screens; it’s Noora’s, and she answers it, mouthing an apology. Isak takes the opportunity to get away, the door to his room shutting heavily behind him.

He has a notification.

**Have you ever seen the film Strictly Ballroom?**

**no  
is it a dance competition movie?  
fuck no**

**I want to see it with you**

Even sends a song. Isak presses play and it's another shitty dance track. He lowers the volume but lets it play.

**you okay? how are you feeling**

**After my picture fades and darkness has**   
**Turned to gray**   
**Watching through windows**   
**You're wondering if I'm okay**   
***finger up emoji***   
**That's from the film**

**I’m okay, I needed a day away from school**

**will I see you tomorrow?**

**You can see me tonight**

**what?**

**Go to your window**

Isak rushes to the window and pushes back the curtain. His phone rings just as he sees Even down on the street below.

‘Hi.” It has been less than a day, and it’s not like he’d forgotten Even’s voice, but he registers it as some long-lost, cherished sound. That’s a silly thought; it makes him scowl. It’s silly and true.

“What are you doing out there? Come up.” Isak motions upwards and moves to close the curtains, but Even holds up his hand.

“No. I want to see you from here. Can you open the window?”

He struggles with the stubborn handle and manages it, finally, pushing the pane outwards against a rush of cold air.

“You did it! And with so little effort.”

“Fuck you, Even.”

Even's laugh is bright and lovely and Isak grins. He brings his hand up to his face to feel the quivering line of his lips and laughs into the phone—the sound blending with Even’s laughter, both in his ear and down below.

“But soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun,” Even says, hushed and small. He raises the hand not holding on to his phone, palm out. “Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon. Who is already sick and pale with grief, that thou, her maid, art far more fair than she.”

“You’re an ass.”

Even’s grin is visible from space. “I don’t think that’s your line.”

They watch each other. Even bends forward a little, bracing himself from the wind.

“You should go home. Or come up.” Isak’s hand goes to the glass. “Don't stay out in the cold.”

Down on the sidewalk, Even holds his hand up as well. His cheeks are red, and his scarf is blue, and Isak speaks before his own legs run downstairs anyway.

“Parting is such sweet sorrow that I shall say goodnight till it be morrow.”

He shuts the curtain and turns, his back to the wall by the window, sliding down to the floor.

“Goodnight, Isak.”

Even’s voice is made to be in Isak’s ear.

“Goodnight, Even.”

They hang up at the same time. No count necessary, their timing is perfect.

* * *

In Bio, Sana writes down the question: _what is filtered and excreted in the nephron?_ Her handwriting is shit, as if she’s already a doctor.

His phone pings, and Sana scowls at him.

**EXODUS14:14 The LORD will fight for YOU; you needonly to be still**

He shoves his phone in his pocket.

“Sana.”

She turns to him, humming in that _yes?-_ way, cheek dimpling.

Isak wants to ask how she can believe in a God that doesn’t believe in him. Allah might not be his mamma’s God, but the story is more or less the same. It’s all absolutes and absolute belief, with no room for questions, or science.

“Isak?”

He hates looking stupid, but he’s so angry. He misses his mother. Not because he needs her to do anything; he doesn’t need taking care of. He only wants to be with her, away from the fire and brimstone. Isak taps his pencil. “Nothing.”

When class ends and Sana’s putting their books away, she slips a plastic bag into his book bag.

“That’s all of it. I don’t feel like carrying it anymore.”

“Thanks.”

She stands, looking at him coolly. “You’re in it though, you won’t back out?”

“It’s too late for that.”

Her smile is small but seemingly genuine. He watches her exit, wondering why it feels as if he’s told her everything.

* * *

Rehearsal is crowded, everyone broken up into excited, chattering groups. The din of conversation reminds Isak of railway stations―that same sense of looming adventure and nerves. He weaves his way through them all and throws his bag down in one of the house seats.

“Isak!”

Isak grimaces and approaches Chris’s table.

“Sonja’s assistant is in the back doing costume fittings, so go get yours done before we start running act one. Remember, no scripts today…but you’re already off-book, though, so you know, umm, good.”

She blows tendrils of hair out of her face, seemingly too busy with scanning the call sheet to eye-fuck him this evening. This should be a relief, but instead it adds to the atmosphere of nervous anticipation. His anxiousness is not helped by Sonja’s absence, which feels more ominous than her presence.

“Sonja has an assistant?”

“Or someone taking over for her; I’m not super sure.”

Chris gestures wildly for Stine, a second-year who just came on as their assistant stage manager, to approach. The girl carries an open cardboard box overflowing with artificial flowers and she places it on the table, careful not to knock over a cup of coffee. Chris and Stine begin to rifle through the box’s contents, shoulder to shoulder.

“Chris? Sonja left the production?”

She glances at him, raising her eyebrows and shaking her head minutely. “Yeah, I don’t really know. She has a friend, uh, Elise, finishing the fittings in the dressing rooms.”

He heads to the back dressing rooms and finds Ragnar and Bille, standing around laughing, in the first one. Bille is in a billowy white number and Ragnar is in a fitted black suit. Bille bows slightly at his approach. Ragnar’s eyes narrow. There’s a girl in glasses pinning Ragnar’s pants who glances up at Isak as he approaches.

“Lady Capulet?”

“He’s Juliet,” Ragnar says, cracking that ever-present gum. Isak wants to choke him with that stupid headband of his.

She drops the pins. “Fuck. Sorry.”

The girl carefully picks up all the dropped pins before anyone can assist, and refocuses on Bille. When she’s done with him, Isak gives her a single nod.

“Hi. Isak, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m Elise.” She addresses Bille and Ragnar with a smile. “Okay, go change in dressing room two and hang your costumes up in there.”

They shuffle out, muttering thanks. Elise removes a garment bag from the costume rack, unzips it, and pulls out three different outfits, all safety-pinned with a note reading ‘Juliet’. The first is a long-sleeved shirt made of a soft, white material, a pair of fitted, white pants hung underneath. Two swaths of fabric—one the orange-red of unripe cloudberries, and the other cat’s eye flower-blue, are draped over the shirt and pants. The second ensemble is a white tunic with that same cloudberry color accenting the sleeves, an undershirt, and matching drawstring pants. The third costume is similar to the first outfit, but it’s entirely black and has a jacket. Elise folds the jacket back; the lining is blood-red.

“The all-white to start, we add the extra fabric for the party costume, the white with the touch of red for the wedding night, and the black for post-Tybalt and the crypt.”

“Sonja made all of these?”

“Sonja worked with Even on the design, but she gave me your measurements, and I constructed the garments. There’s also this-” She opens a panel on the side of the garment bag and pulls out a gold crown of ivy. “Also for the costume party. The girl who left made it―Emma.” Then she presents a thinner gold headpiece. “This is for the rest of the play. Can you have a seat?”

He sits down, and Elise takes the circlet, carefully setting it on top of his head. She uses her fingers to style his hair around the crown. “We’ll have to pin it in place.”

Isak makes a face.

“You have great hair.”

“He does.”

Even leans against the doorway, smiling. He’s dressed for the cooler weather, layer upon layer, hood over his head, nose and cheeks red. He unwinds his scarf.

“Have you tried on your costumes?”

Isak shakes his head.

“Not yet,” Elise says, holding up the first pair of white pants in front of Isak. “I’ll need to take all the inseams out a bit, I think. He looks like he might be taller than Sonja’s measurements.” She whips her head around toward Isak. “Would you try these on?”

“Right here?” Isak glances over at Even.

“Yes,” Elise and Even say simultaneously.

“Okay.”

“Here.” Elise hands him a pair of white Converse high-tops in his size. “You’ll be wearing those, too.”

He undoes his jeans, stepping out of them quickly and pulling on the white ones. Isak’s not embarrassed, but he wants to be…confident and unbothered. His hands shake as he zips and clasps them closed.

“The shirt as well, please.”

“Got it.”

They’re not looking at him. Even scrolls through photos on Elise’s phone, stopping to use his thumb and index finger to make an image larger. “This skirt—could you make it more restrictive across the thighs? I want Jens to be more conscious of his movement. It’ll remind him to change his walk. He looks more like a footballer than a lady, right now.”

Isak removes his shirt, fast, and turns around to slide the top over his shoulders. He turns back once it’s on; but the other two are still busy with the photos of the cast in their costumes, and don’t notice him tying his shoelaces or observing the interplay. Elise holds up a tablet next to the photos, conferring quietly with Even, and his voice in conversation is a low rumble, husky and soothing. He taps the screen with his fingernail repeatedly, and Elise nods, taking notes with a stylus.

Bored, Isak checks out his reflection in the full-length mirror mounted on the wall. The pants are too short, but they fit perfectly at the waist and hips, snug yet comfortable. The top is not particularly girlish, but it’s fitted on his frame and arms in a way he’s not used to. Since he’s not jacked like Bille, the overall cut gives Isak the look of a dancer; long and slender. He straightens automatically and spins on his heel. It’s comfortable, he supposes. Delicate too, in a subtle way. The top’s overlong sleeves go past the wrists, and his hands curl instinctively inside them. He reaches for the ivy crown and places it on his head, pushing his hair around the way he thinks looks best.

There’s a smartphone photo click as Elise takes a picture of him. Behind her, Even stares.

“What? Not okay?”

“It’s perfect.” Even smiles, but his eyes remain intense.

“Do you want me to shorten the sleeves?” Elise asks.

“No, I like them over his fingers. Makes him seem smaller, more vulnerable.” Even chews his bottom lip. “Isak, roll up your sleeve and hold your hand up for me, the way you do in the Holy Palmer’s scene?”

He brings his hand up and rolls the too-long fabric down slowly with his other hand, baring the wrist.

“Oh, that’s good. Keep that.” Even grabs his notebook and scribbles. “Elise, can we try the blue fabric overlay on him?”

Isak stays still as Elise places the fabric over one shoulder and drapes it across, so that it hangs.

“I look like Julius Caesar now.”

Even smiles slowly, “You’re Daphne!”

“I don’t know who that is.”

Elise undoes the hem of his pants and repins the length as Even circles him. “She was a beautiful maiden that Apollo, the god of the sun, fell in love with.”

“That’s Juliet’s costume for the party?”

Even nods happily. “The crown _should_ be laurel, but the audience won’t notice it’s plastic Christmas shrubbery, spray-painted gold.”

“So...Romeo is Apollo?”

Even raises his eyebrows and mutters in his carelessly-earnest way. “Oh no. Paris is Apollo. Romeo is just God.”

“God?”

“All in white, with a long, white beard.”

“God,” Isak repeats flatly.

“God,” Even grins. “It’s a disguise. So no one recognizes him as a Montague.”

Elise grabs her purse. “Okay. I’m going out for a cigarette. Even, you should call Sonja to let her know what you think of the costumes.”

Even makes a noncommittal noise. She exits, her boot heels clomping down the hallway. As soon as they hear the door to outside open and close with a rusty groan, Isak casts a quick glance towards the corridor, then tremblingly meets Even halfway.

Usually, when he’s this close to someone, Isak doesn’t want to really look; but he can’t get enough of Even’s eyes, their hue and shape. Even lets him stare, placing his hands reverently on Isak’s face; his palms cup the hinge of Isak’s jaw, thumbing his cheekbones like pages in a book. He kisses Isak’s eyelids, one at a time. Afterwards, Even’s own eyes close with a rapid flutter. When he opens them, he whispers, “Hi.”

“Hi,” Isak says, swallowing.

“I’ve missed you.”

He kisses Isak again, and his lips are so soft, Isak hums against them, as if the vibration could sweeten their taste. It does, it does. Cloudberries and blue mountain flowers, and his chest aches.

“I’ve told Sonja. About us. I told her I wanted a break.”

Isak is silent for a moment. Long enough to breathe in and out, and touch the curve of Even’s bottom lip with his pinkie. “Is that why she’s not here?”

Even kisses his fingertip, as if there was a cut there that needed to be made better. “She’ll be back to finish the costuming. Anything that has Sonja’s name on it has to be perfect. It’s important to her.”

“And what’s important to _you_?”

For a second, Isak’s surprised by his own boldness.

“I just told you.”

Did he, though?

It’s not that Isak lacks forthrightness. He’s never been afraid to wheedle truths from others, even as he hides from his own. But he hasn’t done so yet with Even; he’s still unsure whether this thing of theirs is strong enough to withstand that kind of push.

In the end, it doesn’t matter. Even silently responds to his question with an enormous smile of near-blinding joy.

It is a glorious answer.

* * *

They run through Act I at breakneck speed, and while there’s enough fumbles, missed entrances, and calls for lines—the overall effect is good. Isak’s actually impressed with Mahdi and Bille’s work together as Benvolio and Romeo. They have a fast-paced, conversational energy, and Bille seems natural and alive; he spars easily with his erstwhile cousin.

Bille is less natural with Isak, calling out for lines more often than not, and stepping on Isak’s feet during their first scene at the party. Bille steps on his lines as well, steps all over the feel of their dialogue, and Isak loses patience. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Even with his hand up to his mouth looking...unhappy. It’s an odd expression on him. It shouldn’t be there.

After a break, during which Even has his hands full with Magnus and his malfunctioning bosom, they start Act II. Isak tries another tactic. He does his best, his very best, and imagines each moment as something new. He pretends that Romeo is the only person he wants to see. That he’s been waiting in his room, bored―lost and dreaming. A window opens onto a cold street, and another boy is waiting below. Isak has no idea what he looked like then, but he remembers the way his face felt, and how it felt like a thousand tiny pinpricks in his chest. The joy was overwhelming, and it carries into this moment. He lives it again.

Across from him, Romeo smiles, and Isak forgets. Juliet looks at her Romeo, and she has never seen anything finer in her life. She has to say good night, but can’t bring herself to let go of his hands, his face. But she manages somehow, the way people must always part with those they love.

It feels like something Even might say.

After they finish the run-through, Even gives notes. Isak doesn’t get very many at all—don’t lose volume on the lines “My only love sprung from my only hate! Too early seen unknown, and known too late,” turn out more toward the audience when speaking to the Nurse, be stingier with pauses during the balcony scene—and Even, reading from the open notebook balanced on his knee, doesn’t look up once. No compliments are given, no acknowledgement of Isak’s attempt to get Bille to meet him half-way. Others in the cast get endless comments, tangents, and grins. They get all the little lines that form around Even’s eyes when he throws his head back and laughs.

He hands each of them a summary page of rehearsal notes. Isak's note isn't a note at all. It's a pen drawing of Isak smiling, light shining behind him. Even makes him look so good. Isak folds it into his pocket.

There’s no opportunity to talk to him again at rehearsal’s end. They manage to nod to one another from across the lobby, and then Isak heads home, looking at his reflection in the smudge of the tram window. His hair is longer than he would like it to be; it curls stupidly at the edges. He can’t wait to cut it again.

Even texts a photo from rehearsal―Isak and Bille during the balcony scene. Isak’s grin is elastic, head thrown back slightly, and his eyes are happy and sly. It’s not Bille he’s looking at, not his face he’s saying things to. It’s Romeo; it’s Even; _his_ Romeo.

**as soon as this play is done I’m shaving my fucking head**

**Hot**

Isak laughs at the string of emojis that follow: fire, eggplant, water spurting, and a clown.

**Hop on the back of my bike  
Let the good wind blow through your hair  
With an ass like that and a smile so bright  
Oh, you’re killing me, you know it ain’t fair, yeah  
Ride on through the middle of the night  
Let the moonlight kiss your skin**

**wtf is that?**

**Don’t know it?**

**no lol**

**I missed you tonight and you were right there**

**yeah**

**Can I see you?**

Isak sits up. He hits call without thinking. “Are you outside again?”

“Uh...not quite...” Even pauses a moment, then laughs. “I’m in your basement.”

“What the fuck? I’m coming.”

He shoves his feet into sneakers, grabbing the keys, and runs downstairs to the foyer in his pajama pants, then down the narrower set of stairs to the basement. There’s Even in the glare of the uncovered fluorescent light, still bundled up from the outside; he’s looking into the little concrete room off the laundry area, which is currently stacked with beer crates. He’s frowning at the shadows, and much too tall for the ceiling.

“Are you always such a stalker?”

Even speaks without turning. “Is this where you slept? On the floor there?”

Isak nods. “Not for long, though.”

Even pulls him to his side. The cold of his clothes feel good and welcome, and Isak breathes him in. After a few moments, he manages to murmur, “How did you get in here?”

“One of your neighbors opened the door for me as he was going out.”

“Sneaky.”

“I’m sorry, it was cold,” Even says sheepishly. “I...I was going to call from your foyer and not come up, but I saw the door to the basement...and I wanted to see. Ever since you told me, I’ve wanted to see.” He puts his forehead to Isak’s and brushes the hair falling in front of his eyes with a long thumb. “Is that okay?”

Isak shrugs. Even is close enough to kiss easily, so he does, with tiny little pursings of lips, as if he were sipping happiness from him. Then he rests the side of his head on Even’s shoulder.

“Rehearsal was torture,” Even sighs.

“Were we that bad?”

Even rubs Isak’s shoulders, shaking his head and widening his eyes. “Of course not, you were excellent.”

“Well, obviously,” Isak shoots back, laughing when Even laughs. “What, then?”

“Pretending,” Even says, with a shake of his head. “I can’t even look at you without giving it all away.”

“Oh.”

Isak’s fingers are cold, and he flexes them involuntarily with a wince. Even takes his hands in his and blows on them.

“I can wait, though,” Even murmurs, his voice low. “I don’t want to, but I will. As long as you need me to. I don’t expect-“

“Wait. You _want_ people to know about us?” Isak swallows. “Everybody? You’re not worried?”

Even shakes his head. “Do you? Want everyone to know?”

 _Yes._ The word springs in front of his eyes like bold, black lettering on a bright, white board. He’s terrified, but this dilutes it—being with Even. At school, in the street, in front of his parents. In front of Mamma.

It’s a door; once open, it can never be closed. All those assholes like Elias, anyone who ever called him gay, will know that they were right.

He doesn’t like them being right.

Even’s Adam’s apple bobs, and Isak steps back from him. Even, who bites his nails and eats clementines like a savage, sucking the juice off his fingers as he talks. The boy who researches for fun, and gives Isak his only glove, and kisses him like he’s shelter. Who feels like belonging, like breathing, like the best kind of sleep. No matter what’s to come, Isak wants to hold on.

There’s no going back. He lifts his chin and nods.

“Yeah?” Even smiles. “Phew. I got scared for a minute.”

“ _You_? Scared?”

“All the time. Don’t you get scared?”

Isak raises an eyebrow. “Never. I’m fearless.”

That’s his cue. He kisses Even, and there’s nothing to stop him. The known is no less thrilling; Isak feels brave, regardless.

“You are that.”

Even angles a little to the left, to align better. His hands grip Isak at the hips, at his back. Isak’s steered towards the corner, narrowly avoiding the overhead light bulb, but not its dangling chain, which they jar with their shoulders. It swings back, along with the light bulb, and their shadows flicker as they move. At the wall, Even kisses Isak’s pulse point, and Isak looks up at the window he used to stare out every night; at its cracked corner, and the tree outside with its branches reaching. He echoes their shape with his fingers, through Even’s hair. Pulls him in―closer and away, like a yo-yo.

The room is much better like this. Isak lets his head fall back on the wall and laughs.

Even puts his forehead to Isak’s, that low voice a balm “I can’t believe you slept here.”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“It’s a shithole.”

Isak tilts his head back and forth. “Maybe a little.”

“You should never have needed to.” Even kisses the top of his head and holds him tighter. “Why did you leave home?”

“My mom’s a mental case.”

“What?” Even’s question is hushed and frightened-sounding, and Isak automatically pushes into him a little more. _Don’t go_ , he thinks.

“The summer before I started middle school, everything got intense at home. Her and my dad were having problems―arguing all the time, or ignoring each other.” Isak breathes. “I was sick of their bullshit.”

Isak’s aware of Even’s hand in his. How tightly he’s squeezing.

“My mom had always been religious. At first, it was like she was going extra-hard for God because she was having problems with Dad, but then she started handing out these flyers at tram stops—Donald Trump with Jesus standing behind him, and yeah, I don’t know.” He steps back a little to look at Even’s face. “I swear I’m not fucking crazy too.”

“I believe you.”

“Good.” Isak breathes, suddenly so embarrassed his throat feels sticky. “My dad left. She would be up all night, and I’d hear the floorboards creaking. I didn’t know how to talk to her. So then I left.”

“Do you not speak to her?”

He shakes his head. “She texts me Bible verses constantly. I don’t reply.” Isak shakes his head. “I can only have one person at a time texting me crazy shit.”

Even doesn’t move, seemingly deep in thought. Isak laughs, nervous and unsure. “That was a joke. I mean your song lyrics, obviously.”

There’s shame in this confession. Fear, too. He thinks Even will understand, know that he’s not his mother. “It’s okay, she doesn’t come round here. So if she doesn’t approve, it’s.” Isak licks his lips. “It’s fine.”

They stand there, and the light seems to change Even’s expression; and while Isak can’t read it, he goes with what he knows.

“Would your parents be okay with me?”

Even looks him deep in the eyes. “They’d love you,” he says, and kisses Isak, stepping away smoothly, reaching overhead to stop the movement of the dangling light. His long fingers slide down the chain, stilling it. Isak takes his arm and leads him out. They pass someone as they go up to Isak’s floor, and Isak doesn’t even think about it; he slides his hand down and takes Even’s hand in his. Only that one witness—a guy with a bicycle Isak’s said hello to once or twice—but it’s a start, nonetheless.

Isak falls asleep to Even’s fingers on his face, his lips, eyebrows. In the morning, Even’s not there. There’s no drawing, either.

No trace of him at all.

* * *

Sunday means cleaning, so Isak does some for once. He helps Linn with the windows, and scrubs hard as she yawns and barely moves her brush. He wipes down surfaces, does laundry. He washes everything, but not his sheets or his pillowcases; he slides his face along the blue pillow Even slept on. There, it’s faint, but there—the smell of that clean, crisp shampoo.

**been cleaning all day  
got a cramp in my thumb for some reason  
broom cramp**

Delivered, but not read.

He has dinner with Noora and Eskild. Isak rarely speaks to Noora and she's not a bad conversationalist. She’s smart, beautiful, and, make-up free, actually looks Isak’s age, which helps him relax a little. Unfortunately, Noora’s also tight with Eva, a small detail that fills him with no small amount of guilt, and brings the tension right back.

Isak wonders if Eva even talks about him still, or still thinks of him as a friend.

Like Eva, Noora’s partial to harmless gossip, but in that clever way where it almost seems as if she isn’t. It’s usually observational humor, not rumors. It’s wit and distance. There’s something somber about her voice when she tells them Sara and Sana are having a hard time at _Julius Caesar_ rehearsal. Apparently, there was some drama in the cast group chat―a tasteless joke about how they were going to use real knives. Sana stopped Eva from reporting it to the Headmistress. Sara said it was just a joke, but Noora could see that Sana was shaken by it, just by her non-reaction. Isak frowns.

“What about you, Isak? How’s _Romeo and Juliet_?”

“It’s chill.”

Eskild’s sitting right there but he doesn’t bring up Even, doesn’t drop any hints, or cast aspersions. The tea gift is seemingly forgotten. He leafs through Isak's R+J script, and stops to look up and say, “I hear you are amazing which seems wrong but...I'll take my source's word for it. Who knew there was a thespian under all that ‘whatever’ energy.”

“Who told you I was amazing? Whatever, Eskild.”

“Exactly.” Eskild licks his thumb and turns the page, waving Isak away as if he’s been dismissed.

Back in the privacy of his bedroom, he checks his phone. Nothing.

**going to bed, missed you today  
see you tomorrow**

There’s no response or read notification. Maybe, Isak thinks, Even’s phone is broken. He hopes not. He’s grown to love Even’s ancient memes and gifs.

Monday’s rehearsal is exhilarating and frustrating. Even is there, and even though they’re still not official, it feels like they’re a little bit closer to being so. That’s enough. Isak buzzes with the excitement of it; of being this close to Even again, and maybe, boyfriends. Maybe that.

Bille is finally off-book, and actually almost _not bad_. The entire cast is present for the love scene, because there’s a complicated bit of staging involving an enormous white bedsheet and choreography. Isak has no sense of what it must look like, but from his vantage point; it feels odd. Juliet barely touches Romeo. Instead they move in and out between bodies, and that sheet billows up and down and around them like a parachute. Their lines are said out to the audience, and Even has them repeat gestures, as if dancing. Their bodies only meet at the end, when Romeo finally has to part.

Even taps Bille on the shoulder. “You don’t have to kiss yet. Starting next week, you should kiss when you finally touch her hand, okay?”

Bille swallows and nods, and Isak rolls his eyes. He’s barely thought about it. It’s not real.

During the break, Isak goes outside and sits next to Bille and Even, as they smoke their cigarettes. He doesn't need to be there. It’s not Isak's thing; he’s not a cigarette smoker. He’s doing it primarily to be near Even, but Even only turns to him with a small, apologetic smile, and then away again without saying a word.

Isak doesn’t push it. Even must have a lot on his mind.

As they pack up to leave, Isak finds Even in the back grabbing his bag. There’s footsteps in the hall but Isak kisses him anyway; pushing him against the wall, then backing away breathless. Even’s mouth hangs open, and Chris and the first-year assistant stage manager, whose name Isak’s always forgetting, come into the room, talking about some prop issue. Isak goes home, elated.

It’s kind of hot to sneak around.

He wishes Even would text more, but reminds himself that Even’s busy with the show.

Tuesday is more of the same, except Isak doesn’t even get to steal a kiss. Even is always out of reach, or surrounded, and Isak almost says _fuck it_ , and does it anyway. In front of everyone. But he doesn’t. He thinks about it. He burns from thinking about it.

When Eskild wanders into his room that night, to deliver his daily monologue about the task chart and his hook-ups, without meaning to, Isak starts talking about the play, and Even. Not in overt detail, but maybe more carelessly than he would with anyone else. Eskild stretches out on Isak’s bed, props his face in his hand, and listens. It feels good and calm. The relief that’s been building in Isak’s chest spills out of him like light.

“I told you that I played Mercutio in high school, to great acclaim.”

Isak laughs. “Really?”

“Yes, really. Why do you look so shocked?”

“Well, Mercutio has all those speeches, and it’s funny, that’s all.”

Eskild frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I’m just picturing you, like, in eyeliner and lip-gloss, yelling about Queen Mab.”

“Eyeliner,” Eskild repeats.

“You know. Like being, like, super gay about it in a high, funny voice.”

Eskild is quiet for a long time. “That’s my regular―that’s how I talk, Isak.”

“I know, I think it’s great, it’s _you_ , you're you and―”

“But you don’t.” Eskild shifts, and Isak has never seen his face like this, with no humor on it at all. “You don’t think it’s great. You just said it was ‘funny’ as in ridiculous.”

“I’m sorry, I’m saying it wrong. I didn’t mean it in a bad way.”

“Yes, you did.” Eskild stands up.

“It’s cool.”

“It's not.” Eskild shakes his head. “I am me. And you? Who are you?”

They stare at each other and Isak is lost.

”You don’t even know how to be yourself.”

“Eskild-” Isak feels his whole face go hot with shame. “I think, I think you’re gre-“

“Don’t.” He holds his hand up. “You can hate yourself all you want, but don’t put that hate on me.”

“I’m sorry,” Isak repeats, numbly.

“You’re not. You’re really not. And I can’t talk to you right now.”

When the door closes behind him, the room feels quiet and airless, and Isak stares at the door, at his robe hanging on a hook from it, a hook Eskild hung for him. Because Isak was afraid he was going to fuck up the door if he did it himself.

Isak’s phone receives a notification.

**I’m sorry but I think things are going too fast  
It’s my fault  
I need some time**

Isak reads it again.

Then again.

And again, more times than he can count.

The message is memorized, just like all of his dialogue in Act IV, and everything he has to learn about the digestive system of earthworms for tomorrow’s exam. _Didn't he do this already? He thought he did this last week. What day is it?_

He's back to not sleeping

Wednesday, Even doesn’t pretend Isak’s not there, but he barely looks at him.

On Thursday, Isak stumbles on the word, “banished”, and stumbles trying to ask Even about the repetition. It’s Magnus who says, “Yo, Even. I think Isak has a question.”

“Yes?” Even asks, without looking up from the script.

“That word, ‘banished’―why does Juliet keep saying it like that?”

Even looks between Magnus and Isak when he answers. “She realizes that banishment is far worse than having Romeo fully gone. Maybe it’s too terrible, too big, and repeating it will make it tangible, somehow.”

_Things are going too fast._

They run the scene and Isak calls for line. Stine reads in a clear, affectless voice, “Shall I speak ill of him that is my husband?” He repeats it to himself. They start again.

Elise is back for fittings. She doesn’t say anything, but more than once Isak catches her eyes in the mirror, and there it is―pity. She's Sonja's friend, so she must know that whatever it is he had with Even is paused, perhaps permanently.

Perhaps she knows it was nothing.

It couldn't have been nothing.

It’s Friday, finally, and during their mid-rehearsal break, someone taps Isak on the shoulder. He turns around to a livid-looking Ragnar, who immediately punches him in the face. The spittle flies from Ragnar’s mouth as he hisses over him, calling Isak “a lying asshole who took advantage of a nice girl,” as Jens and Hiro pull him back.

There is some truth to what Ragnar’s saying, even if it isn’t wholly right, so Isak holds his face and says nothing at all.

It hurts.

_I’m sorry, but I think things are going too fast_   
_It’s my fault_   
_I need some time_

That hurts more.

He thinks of each word as a separate, loaded weight, as Even looks at his face, and Chris, a little first-aid kid under her arm, assesses the damage. The assistant stage manager peers out from behind them, biting her lip.

“It’s already swollen.” _Stine_ , that’s her name. He laughs.

Even bites his lip, and he tilts Isak’s chin up carefully with his finger. “Isak. Tell me. Are you okay?”

_He’s sorry, but he thinks things are moving too fast._

Isak shrugs.

_It’s his fault._

“Do you know what that’s about?”

Chris pipes in, “I heard Ragnar say something about Emma Larzen.”

_He needs more time._

The handful of company members that stick around after the fight shift nearby, and Isak ignores their scrutiny, looking straight ahead as Even and Chris inspect his face. Magnus mumbles under his breath, “He’s going to have a black eye, what are we going to do?”

“Isak, do you know what this is about?” Even asks, pushing his hair back, hand still curved at Isak’s jaw.

Isak shakes his head, shakes him off, and doesn’t cry.

He won’t cry.

Isak doesn’t cry over black eyes, or crazy mothers, or people he has feelings for who need more time. He wants to go to sleep. He won’t, though. He’ll get in bed tonight and stay up, not crying.

Chris gives Even an ice pack, which he wraps in a hoodie and presses to Isak’s face, cradling the back of his skull to keep him still. Even, with distantly-worried eyes and a chapped bottom lip, is close and precisely careful—the careful distance is somehow worse than the ghosting. Isak snatches the ice pack from Even’s hand, turning to Jonas with a pleading, “Can we go?”

Jonas nods.

It’s only later, on the back of Jonas’s bike—something they won’t be able to do in a week or so, when the temperature drops, and winter tightens like a hand at the throat—that Isak feels the slide of a single tear, running on a chilled diagonal down his face.

On Saturday, Chris sends a mass text to the cast that Ragnar’s out, they were approved to look outside the student body for a new Mercutio and someone had already been cast. Even doesn’t call or text.

_Fast._

_Fault._

_Time._

* * *

Isak knows he needs to talk to Even. He needs an explanation. He needs clarity.

He hadn’t volunteered to be part of Sunday’s Andersen theater fundraiser. Isak hadn’t wanted to perform like some kind of trained monkey; making eyes at Bille in his white-on-white costume. While Isak has made his peace with their five performances, he absolutely doesn’t want to push it by doing a context-less scene in front of Nissen parents, or whoever, some of whom have zero interest in seeing the production anyway.

But Even is going to be there, so he’ll find a way to go. It is the best opportunity he is going to get.

It isn’t difficult convincing Magnus that they should attend, telling him they were “back-up” for the production since Ragnar’s out. What is difficult is convincing him to not show up in his costume and full make-up―which Magnus does anyway, with Mahdi and Jonas in tow, also in their costumes.

“What the fuck?”

Magnus’s dress is a heavy black velvet number, and underneath it, his breast-including fat suit vest is lumpy in odd places. One breast is nearly at his neck, the other by his left armpit.

“I mean, don’t focus on my tits, Isak. Look at how cool my hair and make-up is! Mahdi said I looked sick.”

Mahdi sighs. “I didn’t.”

“He really didn’t,” Jonas agrees, before lowering his voice. “Bro. What is going on right now? Magnus said we had to perform tonight? I tried to get in touch with Even, but he’s not answering. Why are you in a suit? I didn't even know you had one.”

Isak shook his head. “I don’t have time for this. Let’s just go. Here,” he says, handing a bag to Mahdi. “There’s a beer for each one of you.”

They walk through the quiet streets of Uranienborg, sipping discreetly on their camouflaged beers with Isak in the front, anxiously walking the fastest. Nissen is oddly glimmery across the courtyard, and there’s a shadow of a guy they don’t recognize at the side entrance. When they get closer, Isak recognizes the dude from Eva’s last party.

“Hey, this is a closed event. Paying guests only.”

Magnus smiles, lipstick on his front teeth. “Dude, we’re performers.”

The man laughs, “Right. I know for a fact all the performers are inside right now.”

Jonas sighs, exasperated. “Of course we’re performers. Look at us! We’re in costume.”

“If you were, you’d know that all performers are in white tonight. None of them are dressed for the Oslo Medieval Festival.”

Isak looks at the guy witheringly. “Neither are we. We’re performers for _Romeo and Juliet_. I’m Juliet. That’s the lead. Let us in.”

“You’re Juliet? Yeah, right. Who’s Romeo?” He laughs and points at Magnus. “That guy?”

Even is inside there, nothing is easy, and Isak snaps.

“My husband lives, who Tybalt would have slain. Tybalt's dead, who would have slain my husband. All this is comfort, wherefore weep I then?” Isak sniffs and angrily wipes at his eyes. “Some word there was, worse than Tybalt's death. I would forget it fain, but, oh,” He whacks at his forehead, and the guy flinches. “-it presses in my memory. Like damned guilty deeds in sinners minds! ‘Tybalt is dead-and Romeo banished.”

He stops. The word lands in his gut, curling inside. Is it worse than death, to have the person you love somewhere out there, but it’s impossible to see them? To know that you could be with them?

“Banished, that one word, _banished_ ,” Isak turns it over in his mouth like something foul-tasting. “-hath slain ten-thousand Tybalts! Romeo is banished—that is mother, father, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet-” He ticks off their names with his fingers until he’s holding his open hands in front of him. “...all slain, all dead!”

Isak lowers his voice, both in pitch and volume, but can’t stop the tremor in the conclusion. “There is no measure, no bound, no limit in that word's death.”

The guy stares at Isak with a mixture of fear and awe. “Yeah, okay, okay. I believe you, Christian Bale. Just you, though. Come back with someone who can confirm that you and your friends are supposed to be here.”

“Yeah, fine.”

Isak rushes inside, school corridor upon school corridor, through a back hallway, up to the dance studios. He passes Noora; she’s talking to someone who looks like Eskild, but dressed in Mercutio’s black-and-white costume. Bumps into Sana, who is made up in even more-severe-than-usual pale powder and black lipstick, her red-rimmed eyes widening in alarm when she sees Isak.

He doesn’t have time to stop.

Down the hall, he sees Even in a suit. He looks beautiful, Isak is pulled forward by an unseen force, following him to the end of the corridor. Before Isak gets there, he collides with Emma, who is in all black, carrying a clipboard and wearing a headset.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

Emma stares at his face, eyes wide. “Your eye.”

“Yeah, uh, I need to talk to Even.”

She tightens her lips and gestures with her hand, as if to say, _go ahead_.

A group of girls, dressed in black like crows, stand there gaping and blocking the way. He pushes past them, still intent on getting to Even, who is no longer in sight. Isak turns the corner and finds Even whispering with Sonja; her hands are on his face, and she kisses him.

Even's eyes are closed when he returns her kiss.

Isak doesn’t linger, doesn’t allow the sick feeling to stop his limbs from moving. He turns around and pushes back through the throng of girls in their black outfits again. Doesn’t say bye to Emma. Just goes.

The boys are outside, but they’re standing with Vilde and a couple of the R+J guys.

“Heeeey, there he is,” Magnus shouts happily. Isak addresses Jonas.

“I’m out.”

Magnus’s mouth drops. “Where are you going? What about the fundraiser?”

“Isak?” Jonas asks, brows furrowed.

Mahdi scoffs. “Let him go, superstar’s gotta go perform a soliloquy for his mom, or whatever.”

One minute, Isak is dead-focused on getting the fuck out. Then someone cuts the film, because next thing he knows, Mahdi’s on the floor, and Isak has his fist up in the air. The rage is cold and black, and Jonas is in front of him with his hands up. Why is Mahdi smiling when his eyes aren’t? Isak takes a few steps back, shaking.

“Isak,” Magnus says.

He walks off before any of them say anything else. He walks all the way home. He can’t feel the cold, and he sinks down at one point, right onto the concrete, but he manages to get up again.

The apartment is beautifully, blessedly empty. Isak gets into bed, still in that suit, and far too chilled to cry. He curls up into a ball, and thinks about water. Freezing-cold water, like the fucking Titanic, filling up his room. Rising and rising over his bed, and over his body. Not a baptism, but a drowning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> canon-typical mild content warning: ableism, talk of mental illness
> 
> whoo. that was a long one. my apologies.
> 
> hiatus happens now so no update next week. thank you for reading so far, commenting, and recommending! 
> 
> ❤❤ for you.
> 
> songs for this chapter are:
> 
>  _Coffee_ by Miguel  
> (The Morning)  
>  _Time After Time_ by INOJ  
> ("Never gonna stop")  
>  _#Beautiful_ by Mariah Carey, Miguel  
> (the Balcony/rehearsal)  
>  _Sick in the Head_ by The Lumineers  
> (Where you slept)  
>  _Nonsens_ by Lars Vaular  
> (Morning after)  
>  _Little Bit_ by Lykke Li  
> (Sneaking around)  
>  _Shook Ones Part 2_ by Goodie Mob  
> (Yourself/The Text)  
>  _679 (feat. Remy Boys)_ by Fetty Squad  
> (Boy Squad Strut)  
>  _Feedback_ by Kanye West  
> (Drowning, outro)  
>   
> soundtrack can be listened to [here](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLWfM4lhzgKQWns3CZDlp5Y_NFhjrQyaVI)


	7. Let the words run out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isak doesn’t think of hearts this way. They’re organs; they pump away, keep the machinery going. They have nothing to do with feelings but he understands why it seems as if they do—lately, he’s never been more aware of his own. Despite everything, he loves Even still. And it is love; as it must be with the person who shows you the truest part of yourself. Juliet taught him that. His heart beats faster when Even’s near, and Even is right there; unsmiling and uncertain. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see end notes for mild canon-typical content warnings

During one of their rehearsal breaks the week prior, Even sat in the audience with Chris and played song after song over the house speakers. Some were Norwegian folk-type numbers, others, poppy dance shit, and he even included a Nas track which Isak immediately made a note to download. Throughout it all, Even leaned back, arms behind his head and eyes closed, his long legs propped up on the seat in front of him. Isak frowned at the next song.

“This one sounds like a fucking gum commercial.”

Even laughed and laughed. “I love it.”

“It does, though.”

Chris nodded her head to the beat. “When would you use it?”

“I don’t know. I have to keep thinking about it.” Even winked at Isak. “Or maybe I’ll create a situation where we can use this song.”

“Create a situation?” Isak asked, skeptical, his shoulders swinging to the beat despite himself.

“Yes,” Even smiled. “Something that isn’t in the text, but could be. An unwritten moment. All of this story happens in four days―Sunday through Thursday. So much drama in so little time. We have to find a way to give that time meaning. You understand?”

Isak nodded, but he was unsure.

Even’s smile changed to something kinder, small and soft. “Don’t worry. I’ll explain.”

Isak’s not sure what anything means. He wishes Even was able to explain it to him. Wishes he knew how much time Even actually needs, or why he needs it.

After the fundraiser, Isak manages to fall asleep; he wrings out a dream from those small hours. It’s the kind of dream where features are blurred, and so are the landscapes. He can only see his hand in front of him; in his palm is a pink rose in full bloom.

It’s Monday.

He goes to school.

He cannot miss school.

No matter what.

The Nissen courtyard is fair Verona, half-Montague and half-Capulet, split down the middle. On one side, there's Emma and her crew. On the other stands Even, talking to Bille, Hiro, and Jens. There’s no way to walk past either group without being seen.

He puts on “Dance of the Knights” and blasts it through his headphones, making his way purposely through the crowd, head down. There are eyes on him, he can feel their heat, and he’s so busy trying to stay inside himself, as if his body were a moving fortress, that he almost crashes into Nils Astrup, who swerves before they can collide.

“Sorry, man,” Isak stutters.

“No problem,” Nils says, full-lipped smile turning mean. “Don't forget the rosemary and pan-”

Isak wakes up with a start, feeling like he’s more ice cube than person. His head pounds.

It’s Monday.

He doesn’t want to go to school.

He goes to school.

Because of the play, Isak knows he has some flexibility with the 10% absence-limit, but it’s a slippery slope―and academics are the only thing he can control.

Everybody will talk about him. Assuming Sonja filled her in over what happened, Emma will tell everyone, or Mahdi will say Isak snapped. He pictures them laughing together about it―laughing at him.

And Even. Isak keeps feeling that moment he saw Even with Sonja, over and over again, in his chest and stomach. He’d felt this sort of pain before, but never in relation to a person he has feelings for. Someone who isn’t his.

No one says anything all day, though people do give him curious looks. He can’t tell if it’s because of rumors, or because of his black eye, which has turned a sullen purple-gray. He gets a text from first-year Maria Bergheim, Ragnar's little sister who is still in the play as a part of the Chorus and also, Mercutio's Page.

**I'm really sorry**   
**for what my brother did**   
**I don't believe what Emma said either**

He doesn't respond right away because he doesn't know what he's responding to. Eventually he tells her.

**don't stress**   
**it's all good**

It's not a lie exactly. He doesn't want her to quit and cause another casting emergency. 

And here he is giving a fuck about the play. What is his life?

In class, Sana hands him an instant ice pack. “Keep icing that eye. For at least two hours a day until it fades.”

“Thanks. Is this something you have prior experience with?”

She sighs. “No, Isak. I Googled it.”

He sees the boys in the cafeteria at lunch and avoids them. Isak grabs his phone. Texts Jonas.

**sorry**

Jonas replies instantly, but Isak is too ashamed to read the message.

He’s almost left the building when he crashes into Even. They stare at each other.

“Hi,” Even says.

It feels like all of the hurt Isak’s been carrying around in his throat and chest drops down to the pit of his stomach. “Umm, hi.”

One of Even’s hands is at his chest, a dog-eared copy of _Romeo and Juliet_ curled in his grasp. His cuticles are irritated and torn. There’s a green piece of yarn tied around his wrist, like a reminder.

Even looks washed out, pale and drawn and Isak hates, hates, that Even’s staring back at him as if _he_ looks worse. Which, he probably does, especially now that it sinks in how lovely Even appears to him anyway. Even exhausted and stooped, half-buried underneath his hat, hood, and scarf, smelling faintly of tobacco, Even is still the only one he wants. It feels like his heart might burst with it.

Isak doesn’t think of hearts this way. They’re organs; they pump away, keep the machinery going. They have nothing to do with feelings but he understands why it seems as if they do—lately, he’s never been more aware of his own. Despite everything, he loves Even still. And it is love; as it must be with the person who shows you the truest part of yourself. Juliet taught him that. His heart beats faster when Even’s near, and Even is right there; unsmiling and uncertain. 

“I was-” Even bites his lip, and the area where his teeth sink in goes white. Isak feels a wave of nausea from lack of sleep come over him, and he weaves on his feet.

“I have to go. I’ll, uh, see you tomorrow at rehearsal.”

He steps to the right, and so does Even. He moves left, and Even does as well.

“Jesus,” Isak mutters and shoves past, before their stupid little dance continues indefinitely.

He’s halfway home on foot before he realizes he’s left his script in his locker. It’s just as well―he can’t see himself focusing on words tonight.

The words are all burned into his head, anyway.

Since his name wasn’t on the call sheet tonight, a small miracle, there’s no need to go anywhere. He shuts off the lights and waits for calamity. His phone is quiet, and it doesn’t buzz from the bedside table. There are soft sounds outside the window, outside his room, cars and the occasional shouts of people. They flatten to a hum, dim white noise, before disappearing entirely. Becoming nothing. Just like him.

Around 22.00, a knock on the door startles Isak upright, heart stuttering in his chest. Eskild’s voice cuts through the fog of suspended anxiety.

“Isak. Are you in there?”

Isak stands up, instantly lightheaded, and opens the door. Eskild blinks. He’s wearing some kind of white jumpsuit and has glitter on his face. They stare at each other.

“Hey,” Eskild tosses back his head. “I forgot to put on my eyeliner.”

“I’m really, really sorry about the other day.”

In the living room, he can hear the television. Eskild gestures toward the sound. “It’s just me, I left it on.”

“I mean it. I’m sorry.”

“If this is what all this ‘taking to your bed’ is about, I’ve forgiven you, so stop it.” He rolls his eyes. “It’s really okay. I’m totally over it. You’re young and stupid. It’s to be expected.”

“That’s not why.”

Eskild crosses his arms and stares blankly. Isak’s mouth drops open, but he finds he can’t say anything. He lost the right to. Instead, he shrugs helplessly.

“So. Did Even tell you?” Eskild says coolly.

“Tell me what?”

“Because of that monster who hurt your adorable idiot face, I am now in your little high school play.”

Isak’s jaw drops. “Huh?”

“You lost an actor, the production was in a bind, and I have played the role before.” He rolls his eyes. “If you paid attention to the things that I say, which your director clearly did, then it wouldn’t surprise you this way.”

“Okay.”

“That’s why I was there last night; I was part of the reading. It was ‘the Actor’s Nightmare’, only amazing. I hear you were there, too. You must have been wondering.” He pauses, clearly pleased with himself, raising an eyebrow. “I promise to make Mercutio ‘extra-gay’, just for you.”

Isak covers his bruised eye with a shaky hand. “That’s...great, Eskild. Truly.”

“A plague on both your houses.” Eskild strikes each consonant with precision. “It’s too bad, really, that you’re not playing Romeo. Because I’ve been so angry with you, I could look into your eyes, say those words, and have them sound true.”

Eskild slumps against the doorframe. Isak looks down at Eskild’s fingernails. There’s glitter on them, too.

Isak's stomach growls loudly. “Sorry.”

“Did you not have dinner?” Eskild asks. Isak shakes his head. 

Eskild sighs. “Come on, you helpless child.”

In the kitchen, Eskild boils some salted water in a pot, and steals some pasta from Linn’s shelf. He butters and seasons the plain noodles, adding cut up garlic and herbs. They sit in the living room and eat; the only sound is their fork tines clanging against their plates. When they’re done, Isak takes Eskild’s plate and brings it to the kitchen. He puts on his rubber gloves like his mamma taught him, and does the washing up.

When he returns to the living room, Eskild is still on the couch with the television on, the sound now turned off. A copy of _Romeo and Juliet_ is in his hand, and he taps a pencil against the page and laughs.

“Back then, when I was sixteen, I worked so hard on this part. I couldn’t even believe I got cast in the first place. I was going to get to fight, have a death scene, and chew the fuck out of the scenery. And my costume! Was AH-mazing. This black-and-white Harlequin-style Freddie Mercury spandex number.” Eskild purses his lips, brings the eraser end to his nose. “One day, I overheard one of my teachers saying that the casting must have been a mistake. _Tryggvason? That one―with the way he talks?_ I didn’t understand at first, I thought my voice sounded musical and musical is...theatrical.” He tilts his head. “But then, I figured out what they meant.”

Isak takes in a big, gulping breath, and lets all his words out in a rush. “Even and I had a thing, but he went back to his girlfriend.”

Eskild frowns and does a slow double-take. Down the hall, there’s the hum of music. Isak realizes, with a flush, that he didn’t even think to check if they were alone in the apartment.

“Isak.” Eskild holds up his hand. “Can we make this not about you for, like, five seconds?”

Isak’s startled enough to laugh, and Eskild continues, crossing his arms. “I mean. Seriously. You are. SELF-OBSESSED. My God.”

He joins in on Isak’s nervous, scattered laughter. It quiets quickly, a lid over a boiling pot.

“Are you okay?”

“No.” Isak smiles and shrugs.

“What are you going to do?”

“I can’t really quit this play.” Isak rubs his eye with the heel of his hand. “I just have to tough it out.”

“Should _I_ quit this play? Really fuck your director over?”

“Nah.” Isak shakes his head. “It would be cool to see your ‘amazing’ Mercutio.”

Unnervingly, Eskild says nothing. His face softens, and Isak wants to soak in the sympathy, but they stay in their respective corners. Isak coughs and looks down at his own socked feet.

“How is your injury?” Eskild asks softly.

“It’s fine.”

“Keep icing it.” Eskild nods briskly, taking his phone out of his pocket. “I have to make sure that Linn’s bringing home toilet paper from her club meeting. We’re out again. I don’t know how entire rolls keep disappearing.”

Isak pointedly continues looking at his feet, coughing as well for extra effect. “Uh, I need to study.”

Before he leaves the room, Eskild calls him back.

“It’s common, you know. Men go back to their girlfriends. But it’s not a reflection of your worth. Ever.”

“Thanks.”

Isak does not sleep.

He cannot sleep.

He studies. Not just Bio or Physics, but every single subject. At 3.00, Mamma texts, and that’s his cue to move on to the play, his play, his Juliet, who teaches the torches when he could never.

Isak looks in the mirror and turns his face, examining it from both the left and the right. His hair is growing longer and flares out messily, the corners of his eyes are red. He’s so pale, the black eye has worsened from purple to a darker gray.

What is wrong with him, exactly? Why can’t he be loved?

Isak’s at the rehearsal before he even knows it; Tuesday is a smudgy, watercolor blur.

They were asked to wear white today. They're not in costume yet so everyone brings their own white-on-white outfits. Isak's costumes aren't ready anyway; the pants are still too short, his sleeves still too long, and yet, he feels gangly, uncomfortable, and way out of his depth in his own clothes. He can't wait to have Juliet's armor to hide behind.

He turns out to the audience. “Was ever book containing such vile matter so fairly bound? O, that deceit should dwell in such a gorgeous palace.”

“Okay, hold places.” The lights grow brighter, and dimly, he can see Chris talking to Ivar, the lighting tech.

Next to Isak, Magnus mumbles his lines under his breath.

Off-stage, Even’s voice rumbles over the P.A. “Thank you for your patience, guys. We are not actually in tech until Thursday, but I want to sort out this one thing prior to that, so we don’t stumble on it later.”

This information is meaningless to Isak. He doesn’t engage with Even at all, or Magnus, or anyone. All he wants is to get through rehearsal and go home, study some more. Try and sleep.

Chris shouts out. “We’re going to move on to Act Three, Scene Five.”

The cast grumbles in unison, which turns to laughter.

“There’s some stuff we’ll be trying out today. Juliet and Bille, just keep going with the scene, no matter what’s happening technically.”

“Isak, bro.”

There’s a split-second screech of feedback, and Isak winces.

“What?” Even asks.

“Isak,” Magnus repeats, louder and with a laugh. “You called him Juliet.”

“Yes.” Then, softer, “Sorry, Isak.”

Isak nods, walking toward his mark next to Bille at the back of the stage.

The lights go dark, then fade up to a pre-dawn blue. The projector begins running from the back of the house, and Isak hears soft _oohs_ from the cast members in the audience.

He turns and makes eye contact with Bille. A woman’s profile is projected on Bille’s all-white costume, in glorious color, and Isak gasps, reaching out. A portion of the other half of the image is projected on the long sleeve of his own costume.

“Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day. It was the nightingale, and not the lark, that pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear. Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree. Believe me, love, it was the lark.”

Bille is equally distracted by the effects; he turns his head to face the white backdrop behind them, where the full image is projected. It’s a couple, kissing, then another, embracing. The crimson of their lips is slashed across his chest. “It was the lark, the herald of the morn, no nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks do lace the severing clouds in yonder east.”

The members of the ensemble that are onstage unfurl sections of white cloth, which they parachute over Isak and Bille as they move between all the bodies. And everyone, everyone, is covered in the projected images of lips and eyes, dozens and dozens of kisses.

Isak can’t help it; he giggles as he twists around the crowd, saying Juliet’s lines to Romeo out to the audience and knowing he’s a canvas. He sneaks looks at Bille, who is smiling just as wide. Everyone on stage is. The blocking, which had once seemed awkward and unnatural, is transformed into something that feels heart-stoppingly like love.

They're done with their dialogue but the images still project, only faster, the music rises, and Even yells, “Start over, keep going!” Everyone moves faster the second time around, quickly becoming a blur of black and white. The only pop of color is the red mouths of the lovers superimposed over everyone onstage. Even yells out again, joyously, as Romeo and Juliet run, nearly at the end of the dialogue, “Keep going, keep going, let the words run out! Let the words run out!” So they do, breathlessly, chasing one another through those forever-kisses, the motion replacing the poetry, and laughing.

Finally, they’re at the front of the stage. Romeo and Juliet circle one another; their raised palms hover next to each other’s cheeks, as if to caress. Bille takes Isak in his arms and kisses him quickly on the lips; Isak laughs, startled by it.

“Okay, hold,” Even’s voice calls out.

Bille is bright red. “Sorry,” he whispers.

“It’s fine. You were supposed to.” Isak shakes his head. “I was just surprised, that’s all.”

And it is fine. Isak is almost weirded out by how fine it is, how unembarrassed he feels. Bille is okay. Isak’s come to, if not feel friendly, then at least respect him. This moment adds to that respect. They’re pretending, and kissing is kissing. It only matters that it looks real.

Even’s at their feet, beaming at them from the lip of the stage. “Well, what did you think of our _Cinema Paradiso_ moment?”

Everyone in the theater claps and whistles, shouting out _awesome_ and laughing.

He looks at Isak. “Do you like it?”

Isak stares down at his feet, then looks back up, shifting in his white high tops. “I love it.”

“Good.” Even grins, then hoists himself up onstage in a near-ludicrous swing of gangly motion. “Okay, Romeo, thank you for kissing Juliet. It looked incredible. Next time, can you do a silent six-count on that kiss, so I can get to the end of the projection montage? Like this,” Even turns to Isak and pulls him into his arms.

For a terrible and wonderful moment, Isak thinks Even’s going to kiss him right then and there; but Even merely keeps Isak in his arms and counts to six. _One and two and three and four and five and six._ He slowly relaxes with each number.

“Okay?”

Bille nods. Even lets Isak go.

“Okay, great.” He smiles widely at them both. “I love what you two did. I know it was mostly surprise over the lighting effect, but if you can keep some of that giddiness, I think the audience will be swept up in the emotion.”

“So we should look at each other? Was that okay?” Bille asks.

“Yes, it makes sense for you to sneak time with your eyes. You’re running out of it.”

Even and Isak lock eyes again.

“Okay, let’s move on.”

Isak leaves without saying goodbye to anyone, which is fine. He kneels to unlock his bike, and slows down to watch Jonas, Mahdi and Magnus on the way to the tram. Their fourth is Julian; his beanie is also blue. It almost looks like the same group of boys. Isak’s been swapped out with someone less shitty.

He studies. Starts a paper on the importance of biodiversity. Watches an animated banana dancing, and singing the Peanut Butter Jelly Time song on youtube. Thinks about the way Even listens.

Isak's dad texts. He's gotten used to ignoring his messages, it feels odd to read this one. 

**I saw an email for Romeo and Juliet**   
**I didn't know you acted now!**   
**That's great to hear, Isak.**

_Is it really?_ Isak rolls his eyes.

**When should we come?**   
**I'll bring your Mamma.**

**No need to.**

**Come on, Isak.**   
**We haven't ever missed anything of yours**

**I play Juliet**   
**and I kiss Romeo who is played by a boy**

**Okay, that's interesting**

_Interesting._ “Jesus Christ,” Isak mutters.

**and I was seeing the director, Even**   
**also a boy**

Only a half-lie, but Isak is too lit up to care.

**That's great, Isak**   
**Not anymore though?**

**no it's fine**

**Well, maybe we can keep that part from Mamma**   
**You know how stressed she gets**   
**So the last performance? Tuesday?**

**whatever**   
**do what you want**

Around 1.30 or so, Isak wanders out to the kitchen for a glass of water and finds Noora standing there in the dark, earbuds on.

“Hey,” he says, taps her on the shoulder and Noora jumps. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s okay.”

He has no idea what Noora’s doing here, when she lives in some fancy penthouse in Majorstuen, but it’s none of his business. There’s a moment of panic when he realizes that she might have heard rumors from last night’s fundraiser.

“I was staying in Eskild’s room, but he had an unexpected late night visitor,” she whispers.

There’s no music coming from Eskild’s room; there’s no noise at all. “Are you sure? Usually, it’s, uh, louder.”

She laughs softly. “I know. They’re sleeping now. His new friend is staying over.”

Isak raises an eyebrow. “Shit. That’s serious. For Eskild.”

“I know.” Now that his eyes have acclimated to the dark, he can see her better. Her face is devoid of make-up, which he's now gotten used to, and she’s wearing a t-shirt that’s too big for her. She borrows Eskild’s clothing, too. He’s never considered that Noora might be another one of Eskild’s strays. She seems like a grown-up in a way he doesn’t.

“What-” he coughs, “-are you listening to?”

She straightens, flips her hair over her shoulder. “Gabrielle.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes. Do you want to listen with me?” Her question has teasing lilt but there's a hesitancy to it as well, as if she wants him to stay.

He shrugs, then nods in assent. Noora walks back to the living room and wordlessly, he follows. She sits down on the couch, hands him one of her earbuds and restarts the song. They listen in the dark. All the way through to the end.

Isak breathes out slowly. “Context.”

She takes the earbud back and rolls them up slowly into a tight, white coil in her palm.

“I’m glad you’re here, Isak.”

He nods. Isak didn’t think he contributed much to the apartment ecology, but he gets it. He’s the night guard.

* * *

Two classes pass without incident. In Bio, Sana looks like death. Nipples asks Sana to discuss the components of the theory of natural selection. She moves her books around on her desk before mumbling, “Overproduction.” Her mouth stays open, but only a soft _uh…_ comes out after that.

Isak writes down _inherited variation_ on the margins of his worksheet, and Sana says nothing rather than look down.

It makes no sense; Sana’s never had a problem with memorization.

At the end of class, he’s about to ask her what’s wrong, but she throws her bag over her shoulder and strides off.

Isak shuffles down the hall, watching her move quickly on ahead. It’s possible she’s heard something―about him and Even―and doesn’t want to know him anymore. Isak’s not sure how shunning works, but he’s pretty confident loving another boy is worse than eating pork in Islam.

It’s not like Sana and he have a close friendship, but he’s bothered by its probable loss anyway. In an odd way, she reminds him of himself. Or at least, the voice in his head that pushes him to do better, or be smarter. He likes that there’s no guessing with Sana, no secret language to decipher.

The analogy is wrong, nevertheless he thinks it― _sister species_.

His phone chimes. It’s Mamma, with her excellent timing, and another message from the Lord, which he soundly ignores.

He goes to rehearsal. Even is not there this evening. Sofia, the head theatre teacher, will run it in his place. She’s a little kooky, but mostly nice. There’s something slightly unsettling about her, though, that puts Isak off―that theatre person-intensity.

At first, it seems like a good thing that he has a break from having to see Even all the time, pretending that they’re nothing. But Even’s absence feels worse. Isak misses him, and the way, even now, when they’re not a thing, he feels held by him.

They go over Act 4, Scene 1 with Jonas and Julian, and Isak’s vicious and snappy. He hates Paris, who’s a condescending fuckhead, and the Friar too, with his soft assurances. But the Friar is Jonas, and so standing in front of him, holding a prop knife to his own throat, Isak’s hand shakes and shakes.

Jonas carefully takes the prop knife from Isak’s hand.

Sofia doesn’t use the P.A. like Even. She just shouts. “Can we stop there? Let's take a break. Isak, do you have a moment? Come down here.”

She gestures for Isak to come sit next to her in the darkened house.

“Okay.”

Jonas and Julian shuffle out. Isak settles into the seat; it squeaks under him. Stine and Chris are onstage, moving some of the platforms with the rest of the crew, and Chris’s laugh is a loud, booming ripple.

“You boys are doing beautiful work.”

Isak scratches the back of his head. “Thank you.”

“What is happening in this scene?”

“Juliet is being forced into marriage by her father.” Isak coughs into his elbow. “So she goes to Friar Laurence, who secretly married her and Romeo, and Paris is there. Reminding her that they’re getting married that Thursday.”

“Do you think that she knows that Friar Laurence can help her?”

“No. I think she doesn’t know what she can do. She’s helpless.”

“And yet, she has a knife. She’s willing to kill herself instead of marrying Paris.”

“Yes.”

“Does that sound helpless?” Sofia narrows her eyes, her lips pressing into a thin line. “It’s important, this? Don’t you think? That she’s raging?”

Isak stares at his hand.

“Do you feel helpless, Isak?”

“No,” he scoffs. “Me? I’m not Juliet.”

“What makes you different?”

“Besides the obvious?”

“THAT YOU ARE A BOY?” Sofia yells out, making him jump.

 _What the fuck._ His eyes widen. “No? That she’s fictional, and I’m real.”

She smiles.

“So tell me, Isak Valtersen.” She says his name like a meal. “What do you do when you feel like you’re trapped, and have nowhere to go? You are real, you don’t have to worry about DRAMA, or objectives, or a narrative arc. What is your small, undramatic, real-life way of becoming less helpless? Do you talk to someone?”

He hasn’t. “Yes. I could.”

“Juliet only has the Nurse. But she is a bit of a fool, and has a hard time seeing Juliet as anything but a little girl. And now, here’s the Friar, who is the person that married her to her beloved. In his eyes, she is a woman, surely? He’s supposed to be wise. Maybe she’s using him to vent, to talk about this horrible thing that is happening to her? Maybe, unconsciously, she knows that _connection_...” Here she over-enunciates again, her jaw tight. “ _COMMUNICATION_...is the only way out of this mess.”

Jonas and Julian walk in, laughing. Isak watches Jonas unravel the scarf from his neck.

“Yes, you might be right.”

“Too bad it isn’t in this case, right? Teenagers!” She cackles and flings her long braid over her shoulder. “Okay, let’s try that again.”

They’re done early, and without speaking about it, Jonas and Isak leave together, taking the tram to Isak’s place. They stop at a Kiwi to get some snacks, and wind up sitting on Isak’s bedroom floor, listening to Dr. Dre’s “The Chronic” playing on Isak’s laptop. Jonas fills him in on some wack party haps that Isak’s not sorry he’s missed, at all.

They stop to recite the lyrics to _Nuthin' but a 'G' Thang_ , and Jonas falls over laughing when Isak fucks up and misspells Compton as C-O-P-M-T-O-N.

“Fuck, I’m just tired.”

“So what’s going on with you?”

“It’s not my mom.” Isak puts his head back on the bed. “Well, not more so than usual.”

Jonas shrugs. “I figured.”

“Are you mad at me?”

“No.”

“Good. Because that would suck.”

“Yeah.” Jonas glances over, his gray eyes serious. “We missed you when we took Magnus out for his birthday.”

“Shit! When did that happen?” Isak sits up. “Brooooo. Fuck.”

Jonas bites his lip and raises his eyebrows. The shrug that follows is as familiar to Isak as his sister’s slamming cabinets. They’re both frustrated reactions to Isak’s evasiveness.

“Magnus told us not to call you because he figured you were busy with the play.”

“I’ve been such a dick.” Isak covers his face. “Mahdi must hate me.”

“He doesn’t. We're just worried.”

“It’s not the play,” Isak stutters. “Not really.”

“I know.”

“You do?”

Jonas shrugs. “I think I do. You should tell me, though.”

Randomly, Isak remembers being at the pool with Jonas when they were eight years old, and being nervous about taking off a band-aid before getting in the water. Jonas had reached over, counted to three, yanked it off Isak’s arm, and kept right on talking about Pokémon, tossing the band-aid into a bin.

Maybe this is not such a random thought.

“Okay.” Isak inhales. “I like a boy.”

“Even.”

“Yes,” Isak’s heart is beating so fast. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah, bro. Even’s a solid guy. Handsome.”

Isak laughs. “What the fuck, do you also like him?”

“I mean, he’s a good-looking guy.” Jonas laughs, shrugging. “I don't know. Not really sure what to say.”

“Yeah.” Isak licks his lips. “You don’t seem surprised. About me.”

Unexpectedly, this upsets him. Like it’s obvious. He’s so obviously gay.

Jonas frown-smiles. “It’s not like I suspected anything. Or anything with you and Even exactly. Just that, now, when you say it, certain things make sense, you know?” Jonas seems lost in thought for a moment before a smile quirks up one side of his mouth. “You’re my best friend and I love you, but, bro, you’re not _that_ good an actor.”

“Shut the fuck up, I’m amazing.”

“Well, yeah, but when you look at Even, you’re Juliet. That’s all. And it makes sense, the two of you.” Jonas nods.

“Did the guys guess, too?”

“No, I don’t think so. But you should tell them. I think it would be chill.” Jonas throws a chip in Isak’s direction, and Isak opens his mouth wide to catch it, but misses.

“I’m losing my touch,” Isak says, in English.

“So he’s into you, yeah?”

“Yes. That seems true anyway.”

“What’s the deal with Sonja, though?”

“I don’t know.” Isak scratches his nose. “He told me they’d broken up, but then I saw them together. I thought...he liked me.”

“He definitely does.”

“What makes you say that?”

“He looks at you like you’re Juliet.”

Isak sighs. “I’m not, though. I’m just me.”

“I think he knows that.” Jonas squints behind him. “What’s that note on the wall?”

“It’s from Even; he likes to slip notes into my bag or my pocket. Drawings and things.”

He’d found this one in his book bag yesterday, and taped it to his wall. It reads: _Give me, give me! O, tell not me of fear!_ It’s probably old. But Isak imagines it’s from yesterday, that it’s meaningful.

“You should talk to him.”

“Yeah.”

Then, as if nothing monumental has occurred, as if the world hadn’t just righted itself from a tilt, Jonas starts telling him about some skateboard documentary Julian told him to watch; and while there’s a minute or two where Isak feels unnervingly light, free of a weight he's carried for far too long, he soon forgets that there was anything to worry about, and listens, just listens.

* * *

Isak dreams. He doesn’t remember the details, but he remembers the emotions―the feeling in his chest, hot like joy.

He wakes up in a better mood, and stops at a cafe on the way into school, buying a black coffee and a honey green tea. The courtyard is packed, as per usual, despite the cooling weather; and off to the left, on the benches, he spots his target. A spot of black, sitting still.

“Here you go. As a thank you for the ice pack.”

Sana looks up at him. Her lipstick is not even red, it’s black. “How do you know what I like to drink?”

Isak shrugs. “I pay attention. Sometimes.”

They sit side by side for a while, not speaking.

“How’s, uh, _Julius Caesar_?”

“Yesterday, two of the girls in the ensemble tried to rip off my hijab when we ran the assassination scene.”

“What the fuck?”

“What the fuck? They’re fucking racists. That’s ‘what the fuck.’” She holds the cup tight in her hand.

“Are you going to quit?”

“I can’t quit. That’s what they want.”

“Will you report it?”

Sana looks at him. She looks exhausted. “What for?”

“So they know that they can’t do that.”

“Why must I be the one to educate them?”

Isak’s at a loss. “Do you want me to report it?”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because you’re my friend.”

Sana stares at him for a long beat. Then she smiles. It doesn’t live long, the flick of it disappears a moment later. “I don’t have any friends.”

“Bullshit. Your crew love you.”

“You have no idea.” Sana sighs.

In the courtyard, Sara and Ingrid come into view. Sara sees them and ducks her head to whisper in Ingrid’s ear.

“Sara’s a cold, dismissive bitch.”

“And you’re not?” Isak scoffs.

Sana turns to him with a fury that gives _him_ whiplash. “Is this you being helpful?”

Isak ignores her question. He sniffs, watching Sara laugh. “Did you know I dated her? Not just once, twice. During middle school, and last year.”

Sana’s look of utter disgust makes him laugh. “Why?”

“Oh, you think I deserve better?” Isak snorts. “So we _are_ friends, maybe?”

She rolls her eyes and finally sips her tea. “This has gone cold.”

Bit by bit, Sara’s group grows until there’s at least six of them, all huddled in a circle.

“If we were really friends, you would tell me how I can destroy her.”

“Okay, Pablo,” Isak says. “No need to destroy her. Sara only obsesses about things she doesn’t understand. And that’s like, everything.”

His phone, face-up on the bench, vibrates with a notification, and Sana reads it before he does. It’s Vilde. 

**is it true you’re gay? because if so, that’s so cool.**

Sana grabs her bag. “I have to go. Thanks for the tea.”

_Fuck._

He calls Vilde. As expected she heard it from a friend of a friend of Emma, who was explaining that Ragnar didn’t know Isak was gay; and if he had, he wouldn’t have punched him, “because he’s not a gay-basher. He LOVES gays.” Isak can easily imagine Emma’s eyes going wide at the word.

Vilde's high-pitched voice hesitates. “So...is it true?”

“So is what true?”

“That you let her blow you and then ditched her. And...that you're gay?”

Isak hangs up on her. There's only so much Vilde he can take.

Rehearsal is tech, which means they don’t really act; they have to go one line at a time while standing still, while the crew sorts out all the cues for the show. Half of this stuff, they already have on lock, because Even insisted on the actors moving the furniture and set pieces during regular rehearsals, so it would “get in their bodies”, like choreography.

He shares a few looks with Jonas, who inclines his head toward Even; he sits in the audience, wearing what looks like five layers of clothing. Isak can barely see his face.

During the break, he sits with Jonas and Julian on some old metal chairs, in a small closed alley behind the theater. Isak arranges himself on his coat, so as not to smudge the white rehearsal pants he's been using. He shivers in his sweatshirt sleeves.

Jonas whips out a joint.

Isak’s eyes widen, looking around. “Dude, we can’t do this during rehearsal?”

“Even gave this to me. He said that tech was going to be boring as hell.”

Julian takes a hit and runs his fingers through his lank blonde hair as he exhales. “Even is a genius.”

Isak barks out a laugh. “Because he gave us some weed?”

“No.” Julian shakes his head. “He’s busting his ass, doing so much work on this show and it’s going to be incredible. Did you know that he asked Hiro and Ulrik to write some music for the production and they’ve come up with three amazing pieces? Maja’s fight choreography for the Tybalt and Mercutio fight is out-of-control good. And then he found some dude out of nowhere to take over Mercutio’s part after that Ragnar idiot got expelled. And the new guy is way fucking better.”

“Oh, you mean Eksild?” Jonas says through a cloud of smoke. “That’s Isak’s roommate.”

“ _Eskild_ , Jonas, his name is Eskild. Come on.”

“Seriously?” Julian turns to him, his brown eyes squinting in surprise. “He’s so fucking good, dude.”

“Really? He’ll be here later.” Isak takes a hit and talks past the held smoke. “Where the hell are Mahdi and Magnus anyway? Magnus can smell free weed one thousand meters away. Is he dead?”

Jonas laughs. “Well, Mahdi is vibing with Susanna.”

“She’s cool,” Julian says. “Her hair is bad-ass. Did you know that Maja's mom cut it? She's a hairdresser.”

“Yeah...and, uh, Magnus ran back to Nissen, since he’s not needed for another hour. He’s trying to chat up Vilde.”

“Vilde,” Isak says grimly.

“You’re really good too, Isak.”

Isak shrugs, embarrassed for some reason.

“The best Juliet I've ever seen.” Julian’s got a long, vulpine face, earnest and open. Jonas nods.

“Really? Thanks, I guess.”

“I’ve read _Romeo and Juliet_ so many times,” Julian continues, his breath condensing in the cold. “-because I, like, love Shakespeare, and...I know that Even holds Juliet above all other characters, and that you are the embodiment of that. I admit, I always kind of read her as a romantic naif, a child. I guess I never imagined her the way you play her.”

Isak raises an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“Like she’s made of fire.”

“What?” Isak starts laughing, and Jonas joins in.

“Seriously, bro. You’re so scary sometimes. When we do the scene with the Friar, I always think you’re going to bite me in the face like an angry dog. It’s amazing.”

“What the fuck, I don’t look like a dog!”

“Don’t listen to him, Julian. I hear what you’re saying,” Jonas says, clutching his stomach with laughter. “He’s intense as fuck.”

Julian sits up. “Seriously, dude. I didn’t know you were going to be such a good actor. I thought you were just good at football. But you’re one of those annoying people who are, like, good at everything.”

“How did you know I played football?”

“We were on the same team when we were ten.”

“We were?” Isak struggles to remember, and can’t even summon up their colors. He hands the joint back to Jonas.

“Yeah. You were number 9, I was 4.”

“Oh shit.” Isak’s mouth drops. “I think I remember you. You had braces.”

Julian grins, showing a row of perfectly straight teeth.

When they wander back in, Even approaches them. “Isak, before we go on, can you get your costume adjusted? Elise is in the back.”

“What about Sonja? Will she be there?” He makes sure to keep his voice as even as possible. 

“Umm, she won’t be coming back.” Even takes Isak’s hand and squeezes it. He stares over his shoulder and gestures to one of the stagehands. “Sorry, I have to deal with something.”

Isak wanders to the dressing rooms, touching the palm of his hand, only to find Elise in one of the dressing rooms, a row of needles held in place in her mouth.

“Shit. That’s fucking scary,” Isak says.

Wordlessly, she gestures for him to approach and efficiently re-pins his pants, using those needles. The whole time, he waits for her to jab him with one. She doesn’t. Instead, she grins up at him when they're done.

“There. Next time, you'll be perfect.”

He takes the tram home with Eskild.

“I told Jonas.”

Eskild doesn’t say, _told him what?_ Instead, he says, “Good.”

As they walk to their apartment Eskild tells him, “Noora is back again. Probably for a while.”

“Is everything okay?”

“I don’t know. Drama with William.” Eskild says the name as if it was the same as spending the day at the Norwegian Public Roads Administration. “I think she might be moving back in...can she have your room back?”

“No.”

“So selfish.”

It feels really good to laugh.

* * *

The second night of tech is just as odd as the first; it's deeply tedious, and yet, Isak has fun interacting with the company. Bille, of all people, cracks him up during their death scene, by quoting some weird movie while they’re lying there pretending to be dead.

His costumes finally fit. Isak can't believe he’s actually eager to wear them finally.

Everyone gets a stage make-up tutorial from Eskild. When Isak sits down in front of him, he murmurs, “This is either going to be tragic or my finest achievement.”

In the full length mirror, once Eskild is done, Isak’s eyes look enormous, with white-and-pink eyeliner and brown mascara emphasizing their shape so it'll read from the audience. (Eskild tried to use a frightening metal contraption to curl his lashes, and Isak knocked it out of his hand.) There’s so much pink on his cheeks, it looks like a fierce blush, which is probably the intention. The sleeves of his white top hang over his hands, his collar bones are visible in the straight line of his top, his fitted white pants are finally perfect, and the white Converse on his feet give the costume a pinch of rebellion. His hair fluffy and parted to the side, lined lips a soft, subtle neutral pink, a circlet glinting a dull gold in his hair. All in all, his appearance is better than expected; there’s no visible black eye, he’s not silly-looking. He's almost pretty. Isak doesn’t know quite how to feel about the whole thing. But given that Magnus and Jens are in heavy lipstick and eyeshadow, he’s less uncomfortable than he thought he’d be. Less worried about how others will see him.

But that’s just it. The room is packed with bodies, people wiggling into their costumes and fixing their hair-dos. Everyone in the cast is made-up. Mahdi, Jonas, Hiro, Ulrik, Nils―all of them are wearing lipstick, mascara, and eyeliner, something about the audience seeing the whites of your eyes. No one really looks his way at all. They're all the same.

As promised, he’s not in a dress. Nevertheless, there’s Juliet Capulet in the mirror.

Mamma texts. There are no spelling mistakes.

**These things I have spoken to you, that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be full.**

Even is once again buried in sweatshirts and wears a maroon beanie, covered by two hoods, inside the theater. He simultaneously looks frazzled, exhausted, and charged. Isak notes the Red Bull empties in the bin by his table.

“Hi.”

Even looks at him, those big blue eyes closing for a moment. “Hi.”

“You’re okay?”

“Yes,” Even answers softly.

Isak taps the side of one of the audience chairs and turns to walk away.

“Isak.”

He turns back. Even stares at him. “Thank you. You’re so great.”

“Yeah, I am the best.”

Even’s soft laughter trails behind Isak, like smoke.

The boys, minus Julian, are in the dressing room. It’s just as well, because as soon as Isak walks in, Magnus laughs and points.

“Isaaaaak! Bro! The funniest fucking thing!” Magnus shouts. “Vilde told me that Emma’s telling everyone that you’re gay. I was like, no wonder Mahdi got in your face. It’s fucking hilarious.”

“What the hell, bro?” Mahdi frowns. “That’s not hilarious. I’m not a homophobe.”

“Yeah, but you’re a Muslim, get it?”

“Dude, my family is Catholic.”

“I know,” Magnus says with an eye roll. “The whole thing is out of control because everybody knows you’re Catholic, and that Isak’s a pussy magnet.”

Jonas sighs. “Never use that expression again.”

“Okay. Chick magnet.”

“Still bad, but slightly less repugnant.”

“Still bad, though,” Mahdi agrees and fist bumps Jonas.

This whole conversation is a clown car of stupid, but Isak’s ever-present dread of how this news is going to change his relationships with the boys fades somewhat. It’s better to be known, to be seen, by one’s friends, he thinks. Isak looks down at his hands, then back up at Jonas, who raises his eyebrows. They’re saying, _I’ve got your back._

“The thing is...I am, though.”

“Are what?”

“Gay. A little bit.”

Magnus blinks, and Mahdi looks contemplative. There’s a five-beat count, and Isak almost laughs; he can’t believe he’s counting silence in beats now.

“You’re a little bit gay? What does that mean...you sucked half a dick?”

“Oh my god, Magnus.” Jonas throws an empty french fry carton at Magnus, and it bounces off his forehead.

“What? You talk about going down on girls all the time. How is that different?” Magnus shimmies triumphantly to the pop song playing on the tiny Bluetooth speakers in the dressing room, as if he'd just scored an inarguable win. “So, are you gay or not?”

Mahdi picks up the garbage and puts it in the bin. “I think he’s saying he’s bi or pan?”

“What’s that?”

Isak has no idea how this conversation is getting away from the topic at hand―him, and what he expected to be a deeply uncomfortable coming-out moment. He looks over at Jonas, who frowns at Magnus as if his eyebrows might start a bonfire.

“You are hopeless, dude.”

“The point is, Magnus,” Isak says, with a small, stiff shrug. “I’ve been having a thing with someone, and now it’s over, probably.”

“Who?” Magnus’s face goes very still. “Oh shit. Is it Bille?”

“No.”

“That happens, though. People fall in love with their cast mates all the time. It’s called a showmance.”

“I am not into Bille.”

“So who is it? Is it Julian?”

Mahdi tilts his head. “Is Julian even gay?”

“I don’t think so.” Jonas scratches his chin. “I think he was checking out Maja the other day.”

“Dude, your mom would check Maja out. She’s crazy good-looking.”

“Shut up, _your_ mom would.”

Magnus laughs and holds his hand up in a high five to absolutely no one. “My mom totally _would_. Because she’s awesome and has excellent taste.” He winks at Isak. “Eskild, then?”

“I’m not playing guess-the-guy with you, Magnus.” Isak looks over at Jonas, who bumps his foot against his. “It was Even, okay?”

“Even? _Our_ Even?” Magnus’s mouth drops. “Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat?”

Mahdi nods. “He’s cool.”

“How did you manage to bag...Even? Dude, what is your dick even made of? Like, unicorn hair and phoenix feathers?”

“Bro, are you comparing Isak’s penis to magic wands in Harry Potter?” Mahdi cracks up.

“Shit, yeah. Okay, this is weird. I don’t know whether to bow or cry. That thing must cast spells if he even makes straight dudes fall for him! Is that why Even’s hot girlfriend stopped coming?”

“You guys were seeing each other?” Mahdi asks. “So what’s the deal now?”

“I don’t know shit.” Isak shrugs. “He hasn’t really told me one way or another. He’s impossible to read.”

“But he’s so nice, though. And hot.” Magnus sighs dreamily. “Oh my God. Isak and Even. It even _sounds_ good.”

None of them say anything else, and the silence stretches out. Isak sticks his hand in his costume jacket pocket for his phone, and finds a piece of sketch paper inside. It’s a drawing of a pair of eyes―Isak’s―and written in Even’s shaky hand: _Can I go forward when my heart is here?_

“What’s that?” Jonas asks.

“It’s from Even.”

Isak hands it to Jonas, who asks him with a bob of those ‘brows if he can pass it to Mahdi, who then passes it to Magnus, before it winds up back in Isak’s hand.

“Umm, those are Romeo’s lines, and you’re Juliet, and holy shit, he’s in love with you,” Magnus says with awe. Next to him, Jonas and Mahdi nod.

Isak looks at the picture. Love? How can this mean that?

* * *

The boys turn into a wild gang of advice columnists, and when they return to the stage, Isak’s head swims with their counsel. At the close of rehearsal, Isak stops at Even’s desk and pointedly hands him back his note, having written on the other side: _talk to me when you’ve figured it out. otherwise stop it with the messages._

He and the boys go to Isak’s to drink some beer, which Eskild was kind enough to procure, and talk about other bullshit that has nothing to do with the play. It’s the same old, same old. People in their class are still doing dumb shit like trying to make beer in their lockers, Magnus continues to ask stupid-ass questions, and Mahdi wants to ask Susanna out. Linn breaks up the status quo by appearing, snagging a beer and offering her surprisingly opinionated thoughts on home brewing.

Isak’s been lulled into a weary state of apathy when the doorbell rings. Linn walks to the window and looks outside.

“It’s some tall, handsome guy.”

_Okay._

Isak stands. 

There’s only one person it could possibly be, the one person he’s expected. Isak had quietly prepared himself for the possibility of his arrival. That doesn’t stop his heart from going jack-rabbit fast, alight with excitement and hope. He shoves the guys out via the back exit in a flash. They somehow manage to take Linn with them, along with their beer, shoes, hats, and coats. He’s going to owe them for that one, later.

There are five solid knocks at the door. He takes in a slow, steadying breath and opens it.

“Oh.”

It’s Bille. He stands there looking nervous. Isak tries to suppress his disappointment.

“Hey, Isak. Can I come in?”

“Sure, have a seat.” This feels very formal. It occurs to him that he’s never had a person who wasn’t one of the guys visit him here. He’s not sure how this works. “Do you want a beer?”

“No. I just wanted to tell you that I’m not going to be here for dress next week but I'll be here for final run-through. I have to go back to Skagen. ”

“For your mom.”

“Yeah.” Bille frowns, then shakes his head as if psyching himself up. “Look, I just wanted to say it was not cool, how much of a dick I was to you when we started.”

“You were a dick?”

“Yeah, a little bit. I admit, I was intimidated by your experience.”

“My experience,” Isak repeats blankly.

“Even told me about all the plays you did.”

“Plays?”

“And it shows, you’re fucking amazing. Uh, I’m not used to being anything but the best at everything I do, so this whole experience has been humbling, to say the least. But you’re really great at acting, and actually a nice guy, underneath. It could have been so much more hellish, so thanks.”

“Okay,” Isak laughs, licking his lips. “ _Hellish_. I have to ask. Why did you audition for this play in the first place?” 

“My mom was Juliet in high school, and I’m still hoping she’ll be able to see me in this.” Bille presses his lips together. “She’s been to all my matches, but I never really thought she liked football. Not that she shows it―she’s a really positive person. And she loves me. But. This is her favorite play, and it means a lot to her, so I know it would mean a lot to her to see me in it as Romeo. Even if I had to get past myself to do it.” Bille laughs. “Shit, don’t you cry.”

“I’m not fucking crying. Fuck you. I feel nothing.”

Bille looks much younger when he laughs.

“Anyway, I wanted to tell you not to worry. I take this really seriously, and I’m going to be ready when I come back.”

“I know you are. You’ve been doing great.”

“Thanks, I've been trying.” Bille smiles, and pats him awkwardly on the shoulder. “Night, Isak.”

Isak laughs. “Okay. Night, Bille.”

He leaves, and Isak wipes at his eyes, breathing steadily in and out. He clears up the empties and puts all the chairs back. The sound of the intercom makes him jump.

“Fuck.” Isak presses the entry button.

In the living room, he sees Bille’s red beanie. Isak grabs it and runs out into the hallway, making it down two flights before freezing near the balustrade at the top of the stairs.

Down on the ground floor, Even looks up at him.

“How did you get here?”

“I ran.” His low voice rises toward Isak like a spell. “I didn’t even feel it.”

“How did you know I’d be home?”

Even climbs two steps. “I didn’t. I hoped you would be.”

Another step.

Each upwards step causes Isak’s heart to beat faster. His head feels light and lost.

The stairs are darker than they usually are; the bulb in the hallway must have gone out, so Even’s face weaves through shadow. Lips, nose, and eyes. There’s uncertainty in his eyes, as if he doesn’t know how this will go for him. Isak likes that.

“What satisfaction canst thou have tonight?”

“Tonight. Isak, I...” Even pulls down his hood. Isak can see how damp it is at the temples, the way his chest rises with every breath. “Th’exchange of thy love’s faithful vow for mine.”

There are more lines after that, but all Isak thinks is _come here_ , and grabs the front of Even’s sweater. Pulls him up the rest of the way, guiding the heavenly spin of their bodies into the apartment, where rooms cease to be rooms because they don’t even exist. It’s only the two of them, their lips, the sweet, sure press of each other. They forget to turn off the lights, there are so many on, and it’s all the better to see, to see, to see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mild canon-typical content warnings: drug use in rehearsal (not recommended during tech but here we are)
> 
> hello everyone! back from my coma and getting closer to the end. thank you for following so far. 
> 
> songs for this chapter are:
> 
>  _Dance of the Knights_ by PIANOlimonCELLO (sadly this one is not on Youtube)  
> (The Courtyard/Capulets and the Montagues)  
>  _Nas is Like_ by Nas  
> (Monday)  
>  _Finding Beauty_ by Craig Armstrong  
> ("Let the words run out")  
>  _Glemt Meg_ by Gabrielle  
> (Kollektivet Ecology)  
>  _Sway (Chainsmokers remix)_ by Anna of the North  
> (Boys)  
>  _Ready for the Floor_ by Lissy Trullie  
> (Beer)  
>  _Riv i hjertet_ by Sondre Justad  
> ("Come here"/Outro)
> 
> soundtrack can be listened to **[here](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLWfM4lhzgKQWns3CZDlp5Y_NFhjrQyaVI)**


	8. Romeo is blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isak’s been here a few times, probably just getting from one place to the other. But he remembers the bridge being bigger, whiter―more grand. Now it almost seems quaint, like a toy. Ahead of them, a couple walk their dog across, the gurgle of the Akerselva winding underneath; it cascades past the old brick factory buildings, roaring on one side and humming peacefully on the other.
> 
> He reads the quirky sign about ‘the hundred men it can bear’ as he walks his bike; Even stops mid-way on the bridge, leaning his bike against the white railing and looking out at the water. Isak mirrors him, then startles when two joggers run past, making the whole bridge move. The wooden slats under his feet suddenly seem unsturdy as fuck.
> 
> “Scared?” Even grins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see end notes for canon-typical content warnings

The light in the room is pink and too-hot yellow, and Isak sleeps longer than he should. He blinks angrily at the brightness until his eyes acclimate. Stretches one arm up to the ceiling, then the other.

He rolls over onto his stomach, and reaches for the other side of his bed. Isak wiggles closer, and, after sliding his hand under the pillow and finding nothing, pulls it to himself, breathes in the smell.

In the living room, music plays; he trudges out there, hoping Eskild’s made coffee.

The sight before him makes him stop cold.

A tapestry-style throw is on the ground, with four big cushions set up around their low coffee table. A smiling Noora sits cross-legged on one; Eskild, clad in a bright-purple silk robe, presides on another, and Even, wearing Isak’s pajama pants and his sleep shirt, pours coffee into their cups with practiced gusto.

Isak stares at this tableau, completely fucking dumbfounded.

“Good morning!” Even says, with an enormous smile, and takes one step over to him with his ridiculous legs. And kisses him. His lips taste like warm coffee.

Isak thinks he might be in one of those dumb American sitcoms Linn likes to watch with a deadpan expression. Even’s smile pushes aside any befuddlement, and Isak goes slack.

“I made you breakfast. Sit down, join the party. Eskild and Noora already ate, but I have a plate for you.”

He remembers they’re not alone in the room and approaches the coffee table slowly, nodding politely at Noora and Eskild as if they’re people he’s just met.

In a way, it’s almost like that.

_Hello, flatmates. I am Isak. That smiling guy is Even. In case it wasn’t obvious, he is more than my friend._

Even comes out holding two plates, piled with cut-up fruit in color-coordinated patterns. Scrambled eggs with tiny pieces of cut-up chives, and triangular bits of toasted bread. It’s more food than Isak can eat. It is―like everything Even puts together―beautiful.

As if reading his mind, Even leans over and places his chin on Isak’s shoulder, whispering, “I know it’s a lot, but I’ll help you eat.” He grabs a piece of Isak’s toast and bites into it. “I would have made orange juice too, but you don’t have a juicer.”

“We should get one.” Noora says brightly. “In fact, Eskild, let’s go get one now.”

“Now?”

“Yes,” Noora says, grabbing her coffee and reaching out her hand to Eskild. She opens and closes it impatiently until he reaches for it. “You and I. Shopping-time.”

When they’re left alone, Even lists all the ingredients in his scrambled eggs. Isak half-listens, steeling himself.

“I didn’t expect to see you this morning.”

“Where else would I be?”

“With Sonja.”

Even turns toward the table, forcing Isak to read the line of his back, those sloped shoulders. Slowly, he shakes his head, saying, “I told her not to work on the show anymore, and asked Elise to take over all her responsibilities. I offered to pay El-”

“I saw you with her at the fundraiser.”

Even goes very still, his attention caught on Isak’s hand, picking at the seam of the cushion on which he’s sitting.

“That’s. That’s not for me. Sorry.”

Those big blue eyes blink once, and then Even scoots closer. Instinctively, Isak leans back.

“Isak. I’m not with her.”

“Okay.”

“Sonja wants everything just-so.” Even shifts away from Isak’s space, pretzeling into a cross-legged slump. Slowly, he rearranges the fruit on Isak’s plate as he speaks. “She knows exactly how things are, how they’ll be. I used to think she made things happen just so she could say, _I told you so_. There’s no room to be wrong or be spontaneous at all, because she...” He puts the fork down. “That’s not how she thinks, so that can’t be how I think, either. Do you understand? What she says, just _is_.” Even closes his eyes. “I want to feel my own feelings, without being told what they are.”

“Of course.”

“Yeah?”

It sounds like an actual question, so Isak frowns in confusion. Even leans in, hesitantly, and this time, Isak raises his chin in assent. 

“It’s you and me.”

They kiss, precise and tender.

It takes Isak three attempts to eat any of his breakfast, after that. They’re back in his room before they can witness Noora and Eskild’s exit; then they shower, which is more comedy than romance, given their combined height, and Even’s propensity for keeping him laughing. Or kissing him. Isak’s never been kissed so much and so well.

No wonder people just want to spend all their time doing this; why would they want to do anything else? He sends silent apologies to the memory of Jonas and Eva’s insistent make-outs. Then the guilt hits.

“What are you thinking about?” Even asks. Isak’s been asked that question so many times, and it always felt intrusive and pushy. As if those people wanted to see something they weren’t invited to see, ever. But Even is different. Isak wants to tell him everything, hold his attention, let him in to all the nonsense in his head and heart. The real.

But he's not ready to share _that_ yet.

“I’m thinking it’s Saturday.” Isak kisses him, once, laughing when Even tries for another immediately. “And we don’t have to be at rehearsal until Monday.”

“No rehearsal,” Even sighs. “I have reading to do, though―more Harold to get through. And an online friend sent me a Chinese Opera version of _Romeo and Juliet_ , which I need to check out.”

Isak narrows his eyes. “When do you sleep?”

“Until last night?” Even wraps his arm around Isak, and Isak turns and rests his head on the slope of Even’s shoulder. “Very little.”

“Fuck. How do you do it? I have a hard time sleeping, but you can see it. You always look so energized.”

“Caffeine and the terror of failure.”

“Dark.”

Even shrugs, biting his top lip. “I have high expectations of myself.”

“You’re doing awesome. So you can relax.”

“Yeah?”

Isak nods until Even nods back.

“I don't know. I'm not happy with the ending...I have re-work it somehow.” Even lifts the hood over Isak’s head. “The eye is looking better.”

“I don’t mind it. Makes me look tough.”

Even laughs. “Red is a good color on you...like Little Red Riding Hood.”

“Fuck you. Does that make _you_ the Wolf?”

Even waggles his eyebrows, ducks down to gently kiss the corner of Isak's injured eye. “Why do you think I put you in red?”

“Because you wanted to see me in it?” Isak hits the ‘t’ with crisp preciseness, knowing that Even will laugh.

“True, but also because Juliet is red, and Romeo is blue.”

Isak raises an eyebrow. “How so?”

“You’ve never noticed how sad Romeo is? Without the woman of his dreams?”

“But. But that’s not how it works, though. A person can’t save you from sadness.”

Even takes his index finger and smooths the line of Isak’s eyebrow, his whole hand travelling up into the strands of his hair. “You’re right. But it’s enough sometimes, for them to be there.”

All in a rush, Even disentangles himself from Isak’s hair, and Isak reaches for him immediately.

“I have a great idea.”

“No.” Isak pulls him back, burying his head in Even’s neck. “I’m not doing it.”

“Listen, it’s an excellent idea.” Even starts kissing Isak’s eyebrows, his cheeks, his nose, until Isak laughs. “Let’s have a picnic.”

“Seriously? It’s too cold for that shit.”

“No, it’s perfect. Less people means we’ll have more privacy!” Even waggles his eyebrows. “Besides, it’s not the weather that’s the problem, it’s the clothes you wear. Let’s get all bundled up. Wrap up all the food you didn’t eat-”

“You made too much.”

“Wrap it up, and go find a nice spot by the Akerselva, and drink coffee from a thermos so we don’t fall asleep ever again.”

“What? No.”

“Okay, tea. You’ve convinced me.”

Isak sighs. “No, no tea. Just coffee. And you.”

An hour or so of making out later, they finally leave on their bikes, with Even taking the lead. Isak allows it, for once not feeling the urge to race his opponent. He’s simply happy to catch up with Even’s smile at every red light.

They go down Maridalsveien; then Even turns right to lead them to the river, and they ride the path through the trees instead. It’s not as cold as Isak thought it would be, so it doesn’t matter if it takes longer. The day could unspool itself like an endless gray ribbon, and it would still be perfect.

Up ahead is Aamodt Bridge, and Even slows down to a stop and hops off. Not expecting it, Isak dismounts less gracefully, and once he’s done getting dirt off his jeans, he makes sure to give Even the finger.

“Bravo, that was spectacular. 10/10. Gold star.”

“Whatever. Why are we even stopping?”

Even gestures towards the neat little suspension bridge. “To cross on foot. Enjoy the view.”

Isak’s been here a few times, probably just getting from one place to the other. But he remembers the bridge being bigger, whiter―more grand. Now it almost seems quaint, like a toy. Ahead of them, a couple walk their dog across, the gurgle of the Akerselva winding underneath; it cascades past the old brick factory buildings, roaring on one side and humming peacefully on the other.

He reads the quirky sign about ‘the hundred men it can bear’ as he walks his bike; Even stops mid-way on the bridge, leaning his bike against the white railing and looking out at the water. Isak mirrors him, then startles when two joggers run past, making the whole bridge move. The wooden slats under his feet suddenly seem unsturdy as fuck.

“Scared?” Even grins.

“No,” Isak scoffs. “It doesn’t seem very secure. How old is this thing?”

Even grips the railing, knuckles red from dryness, and Isak puts one of his hands there as well. If he stretched out his little finger, he could touch Even’s. Even’s throat works as he gazes out.

“I used to come here a lot. When I was at Bakka.”

“With that guy from the video?”

Even turns very slowly, and Isak avoids his eyes, peering down past the branches at the water below.

“No,” Even says. “Alone.”

Isak nods. If no one is around, and there are no others, Aamodt Bridge is a serene spot, but the walk between one side and another is brief. Not long enough to want to linger there or anything. Isak would never think to stop, he’d keep going until he got to where he needed to go.

“Do you know what I’m feeling?” Even murmurs, eyes lifting from the drop below to Isak.

He shakes his head, touching the side of Even’s hand with his. “Do you want to tell me?”

Even smiles, and it takes Isak over entirely. The sun appears briefly, escaping the clouds. The sound of the water rises from below, and a pair of Mute Swans fly past, the flap of their wings loud in the relative silence.

“I’ve never felt like this before.”

Even’s voice is serious and quiet. Carefully, he links his little finger with Isak's.

“Neither have I.”

Even wears his multiple layers, and there’s something to him like this, all bundled up and buried. It’s like he’s a secret. When Isak moves closer, Even reaches out for his face, and Isak hesitates, looking around to see if anyone’s approaching before closing the distance. Even leans his long neck forward and kisses him, softly, lips half-parted. Isak closes his eyes to their press, forgetting that he’s in public. It doesn’t seem important, suddenly, if anyone sees, and it hits him then that when the rumors started spreading at school, the fear of being found out didn’t compare to the deeper pain of missing Even. He missed him so much.

And here he is.

Isak finds further bravery and wraps his arms around Even’s waist, pulling him in until they’re chest-to-chest. The bridge moves again, bouncing under their feet. Whether it’s other runners or the meeting of their lips, it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but being here with him.

They break apart and Even rests his forehead against Isak’s, nuzzling his cold nose to Isak’s warmer one until Isak scrunches up his face, and Even laughs.

“It’s better being here with you, I think.”

They get back on their bikes, and this time, they do race. When Even stands on his bike to pedal. He’s fast, but Isak’s faster. He flies past Even on the last punishing hill, crowing in victory.

At Mølla waterfall, Even ducks into the little red Hønse-Lovisas house, where he charms the Danish waitress into filling up their small thermos with coffee for the price of a cup. Isak can’t hear what Even is saying through the open entrance, but the picture is a familiar one. Even talking, all smiles and happy eye-squints; someone staring up at him like he’s the sun.

They settle on one of the many empty benches near the railings. The water is loud all around them, the paving stones are slippery, the air is damp, but sitting there, together, isn't dreary. There’s only one cup on the thermos they borrowed-without-asking from Eskild, and they share it, passing it back and forth, nibbling on butter cookies from the cafe. Isak’s knee touches Even, and Even scoots closer, getting his legs underneath Isak somehow. The smell of Isak’s shampoo and soap is on Even, his too-short sleeves exposing the tender tendons there. It’s almost like Even is his―his to care for and keep.

“This was a great fucking idea,” Even says with a smile.

Isak makes a face. “Eh, it’s fine.” But he sips and doesn’t hide his grin.

“We should get married here.”

“What?” Isak bites the inside of his cheek.

“Yeah, totally. There’s that venue across the river. Or just right here. Jonas can marry us. He can wear his Friar costume.”

Even laughs, and Isak joins him, darting in to kiss him and almost spilling the coffee in the process.

“Shit, shit, shit. Sorry.” Isak licks the stuff off the side of his hand. He looks up to Even staring at his mouth.

“You know what the waitress said, Isak? She said you were beautiful.”

“Shut up. She did not.”

“She did! That’s why she gave me the cookies. So I could,” Even switches to English. “‘butter you up.’”

“Please stop.”

Behind them, the restaurant is closing, and over the din of the falls, a song plays, loud enough to reach them. Even’s mouth forms a perfect ‘o’. “This song!”

Isak tries to listen, but he can’t really make it out.

“Can you hear it?”

“No.”

“It’s our song!”

Even bops his head to the beat, biting his bottom lip, and Isak laughs out loud. “What are you talking about?”

“Remember? Near Syng that night, with ‘the fucking moon’, and I told you that the next song-” He pauses to laugh, his voice swooping down low again. “-would be our song. This is the song! I looked and looked for it until I found it.”

Isak can faintly hear the melody, but Even knows the words, and he’s singing the English language lyrics in his stupidly-deep baritone. “A little less conversation, a little more touch my body, I’m so into you, into you-”

“Okay, that sounds fucking terrible. What is it?”

“ _Into You_ by Ariana Grande.”

“No. I refuse.”

“It’s perfect, Isak! Yes! ‘I’m so into you, I can barely breathe.’ It’s funny because it’s true.” His eyes widen. “It can be our first dance! Come on. It would be so good.”

“What dance?”

“At our wedding!”

“Oh my God.”

It’s so embarrassing, and Isak can’t stop laughing. Even’s singing and wiggling on the bench, holding Isak’s hands in his and moving Isak’s arms around for him like two limp strands of spaghetti.

“Fuck this. We’re getting divorced before it even plays.”

“Nooooooo,” Even whines, looking genuinely aggrieved. “No divorce.” He buries his head in Isak’s shoulder, undoing his scarf and murmuring, “I’m on the edge of no control, and I need, I need you to know,” against his neck. Touching his skin with the tip of a cold, wet nose. Isak yelps and pushes him back.

Even laughs. “Should we go?”

He nods and looks at his hands, still in Even’s. Isak’s not lacking in imagination, but this simple act, holding a boy’s hand, _the_ boy’s, seemed so unimaginable just weeks ago. He never allowed himself to think it could happen.

“Can we finish the coffee and the cookies and ride back to mine?”

“Yes.” Even kisses him quickly. “Yes,” he says again.

“And how late can you stay? We can get Vietnamese near the apartment. My treat. I just got some money from my dad.”

“How is he?”

“I don’t know. We text. He sends money.”

Even touches the hair that’s escaping from the sides of his beanie.

“Does my hair look fucked up?” Isak asks, feeling oddly bashful.

Smiling, Even says, “It’s under your hat, how can it look fucked up? You look beautiful. Very beautiful.”

Even’s lips are warm under Isak’s fingers, and for a second, Isak doesn’t know what he’s doing. It was instinct that moved them here. Underneath Isak’s touch, Even smiles, then puckers his lips to kiss each fingertip. First repeatedly, then slower, before taking Isak’s hand and turning it over, pulling up the sleeve of his jacket and kissing his wrist.

It feels shocking. And shockingly good.

Isak licks his lips. “Do you...have to go home later? Or can you stay at mine again?”

“Yours,” Even replies; his pupils are the size of black dessert plates.

They smile at one another, breathing, until Even gently brushes something off the side of Isak’s mouth. “Crumbs.” He sucks on his thumb, after. It's a casual gesture, wide-eyed and ordinary, but it moves Isak to grasp the side of Even's thigh with near-possessive deliberateness.

The wind moves the wisps of hair that escape Even’s hoodie, hat, and scarf. His shift toward intensity is near-palpable, staring at Isak as if he’s looking at the heart of who Isak is, underneath all his fronts. It feels familiar and beloved. Like this has happened before, and Isak loved it then, as well.

_Behold, thou art fair, my beloved, yea, pleasant: also our bed is green._

Isak moves closer, speaking the poetry of immediacy upon those lips. “Lets go.”

The ride back is shorter, now that they’re going downhill, though they stop at the Penis Swan statue at Even’s insistence, so he can take a photo to send to a friend in the States.

Even fusses with the angle, trying to get the lighting just right.

“Ugh, just find one online and send them a link.”

“No, this way is more meaningful. I know _I_ would appreciate receiving a photograph of a hairless-balls-and-penis-slash-swan statue, taken just for me.”

Unbelievably, that ridiculous song― _their_ song―plays again, loudly, from a riverside restaurant. Even laughs and bounces joyfully.

“Yessss! Penis swan, Isak, and our song. It’s a perfect day.”

“Come on, Even. Let’s go.”

Even trains his camera phone on Isak, who tilts his head with a snarl. “Aaaw, are you frustrated? Eager to get me back to your place?”

Isak doesn’t lie. Makes sure his eyes show it. “Yes.”

Even takes his picture.

* * *

On Sunday morning, Isak hisses at the light hitting him square in the face from the pulled-back curtains.

“I’ve never seen anyone look so angry to be awake.”

Even sits on the ground, wearing a pair of Isak’s pajama pants.

“What are you doing down there?”

“Writing notes. Sketching. Watching you.”

“So the usual, then.” Isak pulls up the duvet so that it covers his head like a babushka. He yawns. They were up late. “What?”

Even’s eyes are happy, his smile is a cute, pursed bloom. “Nothing.”

Isak inches out of his cocoon to rest on his elbow, eyes narrowing. “You? Have no words? What's going on?”

There’s faint reddish bruising on Even’s neck from where Isak held him in place, while vigorously memorizing those lips. _God, how long did they kiss?_

Even shakes his head minutely and swallows. Isak enjoys the journey of that slow movement, licking his top lip.

“I’m, uh, still processing what happened last night. This morning.”

“Oh. That?” Isak stretches lazily. “What about it?”

Even looks so straight-backed and formal, sitting with his back against the wall. He opens and closes his mouth.

“You, uh, wrecked me.”

Isak raises an eyebrow. “Did I?”

Even looks incredulous, mouth slack and eyes dark. Isak studies him, the mess of his hair, the mottled skin, flushed and blooming-pink, his graphite-stained fingers, the way he’s nearly shivering under Isak’s observation.

Isak smiles.

“Let me do it again, then,” he says with a shrug, pulling back the duvet.

The notepad and pencil are flung to the side, and Even scrambles back to bed.

On Sunday night, Even makes him watch _Strictly Ballroom_. It’s about a hot Australian guy who keeps breaking ballroom-competition rules, and the homely girl he takes on as a partner. It’s loud, bright, and over-the-top. It’s not bad. At one point, the two dancers look into each other’s eyes, and hold up their hands alongside each other’s faces as they turn in front of a red velvet curtain.

The move is in their production―Isak notices with a start, yelling, “You stole that!”

Even laughs. “I had to. This production is my R+J, had to throw a little bit of Red Curtains magic into the mix.”

“Red Curtains?”

“The director, Baz Luhrmann, calls his first three films his ‘Red Curtains Trilogy’.”

“Why ‘Red Curtains’?”

“Because the films are theatrical, over-the-top expressions of dramatic love. Completely aware that it’s a show for us, the audience. _Strictly Ballroom_ uses dance, _Romeo + Juliet_ , poetry, and _Moulin Rouge_ is music.”

“Please don’t make me watch _Moulin Rouge_.”

Even throws his head back. “Aaaw. Why not?”

“My sister had the soundtrack, and she was always blasting that stupid song...wait.” He pauses, then glances back at Even, murmuring hotly, “If I watch this whole thing and Fran dies at the end, I’m-”

Even kisses him, and his smile is warm against Isak’s lips. “It’s okay. I promise. Let’s keep watching.”

Isak narrows his eyes and turns to face his laptop again. “The ending doesn’t always have to be tragic, Even. The story can end happily sometimes.”

Even’s arms tighten around him.

On Sunday night, Even goes home. Though he might as well have stayed, because they text and facetime until Isak starts feeling sleepy. He should have studied, he has an exam on Tuesday. But Even tells him a story about people who send letters to Juliet in Verona, still, to this day, as if she could advise them on their little lives and loves.

**Got everyone watchin' us, so baby, let's keep it secret  
A little bit scandalous, but baby, don't let them see it**

**I'm so into you, into you, into you**

Monday morning is a flurry of kiss emojis, and a photo of Even-at-dawn; with his hair all flattened on one side, where he slept on it, and a dopey, sweet smile on his face.

Monday morning is Linn gifting him with one of her rare attempts at breakfast.

Monday morning is a text from Mamma.

**GO from us for thouart much zmIGHTIER than we**

Monday afternoon is Isak seeing Sana by the outskirts of the courtyard and asking her if she wants tea, his treat. They walk to the closest KB and sit on a bench in the park. He’s never seen her so quiet. She periodically checks her phone.

“We haven’t been talking lately.”

She sighs.

“Is it me?”

“No.” Sana turns to him with a frown.

“I thought that maybe, you’d-” He cuts himself off. “Never mind.”

“Never mind what?”

“I thought maybe you couldn’t talk to me anymore. Because of Vilde saying I’m gay, or whatever. Not that...ugh, nevermind.”

Sana looks angry and a little hurt. “Why would you jump to that conclusion?”

He shrugs. “Because Allah doesn’t exactly have a pro-gay agenda.”

Her voice gets very, very hard. “And are you gay?”

Isak hesitates.

“Because you assume I must hate you without even asking me what I think? How can you presume to know what I believe? This has nothing to do with you.”

“Well, what do you believe?”

Sana stands up. “You come talk to me _now_ , after deciding that I must be shunning you, so what is it you want? A fight?”

“I don’t want a fight. I want to make sense of it.”

“Of what?”

“Faith. Science. How they’re diametrically opposed. These are the things that explain the world to us, but only one is based on proof.” His mother’s latest text is hot in his pocket, and his fingers touch it while he speaks. “Like that quote, ‘Nothing in Biology Makes Sense Except in the Light of Evolution.’”

“Like homosexuality makes sense in light of evolution? Because it doesn’t. But, you’re a smart guy, Isak, I’m sure you knew that already.”

Isak watches her go. She leaves her cup on the park bench. The imprint of her red lipstick is bright on the rim.

After a few minutes, he reaches for the cup and accidentally knocks it off the bench. It spills on the sidewalk just as a jogger goes by. She shoots him a frightened look, and he says, “Sorry,” picking it up and throwing it away.

There’s no rehearsal on Monday for him; it’s his last free night until performances, and Isak has to study, anyway. Even’s supervising over at the theater, but he somehow still manages to text, send Isak photos, and a playlist with over six hours of music.

**I have to narrow this down.**

**for what?**

**Pre-show music?**

**seriously?**

**It’s so important, Isak  
This is how we prime the audience  
We tell them what they’re going to get  
Without them even realizing it**

**huh  
so what is the last song before the start of the show? **

**Biz Markie’s Romeo and Juliet**

**shut the fuck up  
you’re**

Isak thinks: _Amazing. Incredible. I don’t know how your mind works._

**too much**

**Too much for you?**

**not at all**

Tuesday is load-in. Everyone, both tech crew and cast, is at the theatre early to turn the stage from a smattering of gaffer’s-tape x-marks into a fully-painted and loaded set.

During a break, Isak wonders why this is happening now, and not weeks ago.

Ivar shrugs and puts out his cigarette. “There’s a reason, but I don’t know it. This was supposed to happen on Sunday, but Even insisted it happen today. That dude does his own thing.”

Even comes out looking for Ivar and puts his arm around him, steering him back into the building. He winks at Isak over his shoulder as he leaves. Isak grins back dopily.

“You know what I’m looking forward to?”

Isak jumps. “Jesus Christ. Julian, what the fuck?”

Julian grins from the ground, which must be cold as balls.

“Did you get a haircut?” Isak asks with a scowl.

“Yeah.” Julian turns his head, showing off the close cut in the back.

“You look good.” Isak coughs into his elbow. “What are you looking forward to?”

“Even’s Romeo.”

He stills. He’d forgotten that Bille wasn’t back until their last dress rehearsal. “Oh shit.”

“He’s going to be awesome. And so are you.”

Julian gets up and brushes chalky dust off his pants. “Going in to see if I can help Chris with props.”

“I’ll be right there.” Which is a lie; Isak is already bored of having to lug shit around. He takes out his phone as a notification comes in.

**I left**

He frowns

**okay who’s this**

**How do you not have my number?**

**I don’t fucking know  
no really who the fuck is this?**

**Sana**

**oh  
really?  
shit**

Quickly, he adds her to his contacts, typing with his thumb. He accidentally adds an extra s to her name. He stares at it―Sanas.

**are you okay?**

**I’m fine.**

Isak nods at his screen. He knows about fine.

**I’m sorry about the other day  
I didn’t mean to make things about me**

**You didn’t really do anything  
I stormed off and I shouldn’t have**

**But...about that  
I wanted to tell you that Allah, to me, is about love  
Islam states that it is our responsibility to treat one another with respect, honor, and dignity  
Trying to best Sara and her crew only brought me shame, not them**

**What people believe is important  
The belief is important, its purity  
Don’t let anyone bring shame to you  
That’s not love, that’s not belief**

Isak swallows.

**thanks  
does this mean we’re best friends now?**

**Fuck off, Isak  
I have friends**

**yes you do**

**See you tomorrow, have a good load-in**

**thanks**

Isak almost types back, _you too_.

He scrolls through his contacts and stops at the letter M.

Mamma.

There’s her last text.

**there are also celestial bodies and bodies terrestriaL but the glory of the celestial is 1 + the glory of the terrestrial is another there is one glory of the sun + another glory of the moon and another glory of the stars for one star differeth from another star in GLORY**

One star. When Isak thinks of stars, there’s only Even.

Tuesday night is Even, following him home after they’re done with load-in and not letting him sleep a wink.

Wednesday is Isak alone. The lights are hot, too bright, and the rest of the theatre is inky-black. Isak wants to wipe his face, but his sleeves are white, and that beige stuff on his skin will stain them. Isak walks closer downstage, towards what feels like a stronger heat, and gazes up until the brightness makes him close his eyes.

“Give me my Romeo.”

He lifts his hands up to his hair and slowly runs his fingers through it, pulling the strands up, until his hands meet over his head―one palm cradling the back of the other. They cross in front of themselves, and then move down, like a widow’s mantle falling over Juliet’s face. He opens his eyes again.

“And when I shall die, take him, and cut him out in little stars,” he says, stretching his arms out to the lights, pinching the spots where they would be, each star in Juliet’s constellation, one by one. “...and he will make the face of heaven so fine that all the world will be in love with night and pay no worship to the garish sun.”

Isak asked Even, weeks ago after one of the read-throughs, what Juliet meant, and Even had said, simply, “She wants him.”

“What?”

“She wants to have sex. Now that they’re married, she can have him.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.” Even’s face is calm, contemplative. “She has won him, heart and soul, but has not had him yet. Think about that. What that’s like.”

Isak’s hand returns to his face; he forgets the make-up and lets his palm slide down his cheek to his neck. Juliet sighs. “Oh, I have bought the mansion of a love, but not possessed it, and though I am sold, not yet enjoyed.”

Even’s out there in the dark. Wearing Bille’s costume, but with a green khaki belt to hold his white jeans up on those slim hips.

“So tedious is this day,” Juliet says, rolling her eyes, spinning on her heel, then pausing. “As is the night before some festival to an impatient child that hath new robes and may not wear them.”

She laughs at herself. She’s the child. But she’s no longer the child. She’s married, now.

Isak looks down at his wrist and pulls up the sleeve, to Even’s beaded bracelet below, tight on his wrist. He loses himself in it, the rightness of those beads there, pressing, and jumps when The Nurse enters. He’d forgotten she was coming.

Chris calls a fifteen minute break. Isak jumps off the stage and asks her, “Did that look okay?”

She looks him up and down. “Oh no, that was...more than okay.” Behind her, Stine gives him a thumbs-up.

From the booth, Ivar’s voice calls out in falsetto, “Ooh, Isak, you’re so sexy.”

Isak flips him off with both hands. It feels right.

Run-throughs are: lines, lines, lines at top speed. His lines, someone else’s lines, cross stage left, cross stage right, turn your back to the audience, face upstage. Exit, arrive. Count your steps in the dance, stay on beat, hit your marks. Find your light. How he manages to make his lines sound real, he doesn’t know, but he does.

The only things that are slowed down are the dances and fights. They practice those three times―before the run-through, during the run-through, and before notes.

When it comes to Bille’s Romeo, it’s more of the same, except Isak is conscious that Even wants him to draw Bille out, so he pushes or changes his delivery as often as possible. Makes sure that Bille listens and responds. It’s not hard, Bille should know this. He’s an athlete. A ball gets passed to you, and you score a goal.

But this week...Even’s Romeo is quite another thing. Every time their eyes meet, Isak wants to move toward him, and for once, Juliet and himself are perfectly attuned. What they want is one and the same. Isak doesn’t need to count, or think of stage directions like they’re a chart in his head; he follows Even precisely through the river of people, the white sheets floating overhead and alongside, parallel. Reaches out his hand―hands which aren’t meant to touch, but Even cheats; his fingers brush against Isak’s every time.

Romeo pulls Juliet into his arms before they’re supposed to meet, and the images from the projector flicker over their bodies.

“Let me be ta'en.” It’s too soft, no one will hear him in the house, but he hears, or rather, Juliet does. She shakes her head no and kisses him. He sinks down to his knees, and she goes too.

“Let me be put to death.” Even takes Isak’s hand and guides it from his long neck, down his chest, and keeps it there over his heart. “I am content, so thou wilt have it so. I’ll say yon grey is not the morning’s eye. Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat the vaulty heaven so high above our heads.”

Isak’s fingers spread, feeling the rapid beat of Even’s heart underneath. Romeo stares at him with Even’s eyes, speaks to him in Even’s voice, and says, “I have more care to stay than will to go. Come, death, and welcome! Juliet wills it so.—”

Lips-to-lips, palm-to-cheek, they sit; there’s no music playing, and the stage is still. The projected image is paused and trembles, superimposed upon them like a shivery shroud. The overhead lights go from pale to a gradual hot-white as Isak pulls his Romeo to the edge of the stage. The movement is reluctant but urgent; it’s a dire sort of push and pull, to get him to safety.

“It is, it is. Hie hence! Be gone, away! It is the lark that sings so out of tune, straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps.” Juliet laughs, but it gets stuck in her throat. “Some say the lark makes sweet division. This doth not so, for she divideth us.” Isak throws his arms around Romeo and breathes in desperately, to keep some of his scent. “Now be gone.” He pushes Even towards the edge of the stage, crouching when Even crouches, desperate and clutching at the collar of Even’s white shirt. “More light and light it grows.”

Romeo is dazed and holds up a hand to his eyes. “More light and light, more dark and dark our woes!” Why has he slowed down? Juliet takes his hands, and they stare into each other’s eyes for a moment. There’s a knock offstage. The knock is everyone in the cast. Everyone, onstage and off, begins knocking against every surface. It echoes as they keep at it, getting louder and louder.

The Nurse appears. “Your lady mother is coming to your chamber. The day is broke. Be wary, look about.”

Isak swallows, the knocks haven’t stopped. He mimes opening a window, struggling with it, the way Even asked him to. “Then, window, let day in and let life out.”

Even stops. One long leg hangs over the stage, and he pulls Isak to him, hands gentle at his cheeks. They look at one another for as long as they can. “Farewell, farewell. One kiss, and I’ll descend.”

It is a long kiss. It’s not a stage kiss. It feels like a goodbye. There are more words―a nightmare that’s a premonition. Two children cheering themselves with a fantasy future that the audience already knows they won’t get to have.

Juliet is still watching Romeo exit the theater when her mother walks in.

The rest of the show flies.

Even is so fucking good. When he’s not acting, Isak stands by Stine’s table on stage left, so he can watch Romeo’s scenes without Juliet. Even looks tired, with gray shadows under his eyes, his hair messy and unkempt, but he’s also alight―he glows. He sits on a raised platform upstage, on the edge of a chair, an orange-red light on him like the sun, and moves Isak with his simplicity. The way he says, with awed joy, “I dreamt my lady came and found me dead—Strange dream, that gives a dead man leave to think—And breathed such life with kisses in my lips that I revived and was an emperor. Ah me! How sweet is love itself possessed when but love’s shadows are so rich in joy!” Then moments later is crushed by Balthasar’s news of Juliet’s death, and all that fevery, burning love departs. He tells the stars that he’s defying them, and Isak believes him. He would do the same. Stine hands him a tissue, and he accepts it with a murmured thanks.

There are, as always, a few goofs. Nils drops nearly all his Apothecary lines, but it’s forgiven since he always on point as Tybalt; it’s assumed he’ll catch up. Gregard fucks up the hold on Isak’s hair during the Juliet and Old Capulet father/daughter fight, and pulls Isak’s actual hair. Isak rewards him with a yowled “WHAT THE FUCK!” and punch to the thigh.

Oda, the new girl playing Paris’s Page, doesn’t know how to whistle, so she claps and snaps her fingers instead, and everyone busts out laughing.

They don’t have time for notes, but Even promises them that he’ll email them before tomorrow’s run-through.

Isak thinks that means they’ll say goodbye at the tram, but Even follows him and Eskild home, up the stairs, into their apartment. He stops to remove his shoes, but keeps his coat and hat on when he follows Isak into his bedroom. Once the door closes, Even melts against him―he can see Even’s face in the mirror, eyes closed and swaying.

“Do you want to stay?” Isak rubs the back of Even’s neck, and feels him sink a little more.

Abruptly, Even steps back and takes a deep breath, eyes back to sparkling. “I’d love to, but I can’t. I have so much work to do.”

“For school?”

He laughs, hugging Isak tightly again and humming tiredly. “For the play.” Even nudges his nose against Isak’s neck, runs the tip up the soft skin there, in a curving line, to a spot behind Isak’s ear. “I want to stay. I’ll be reading and reading, typing out notes on my laptop, and every moment I stop, my mind will be here with you.”

“Jesus, Even.” Isak kisses him, helplessly, and Even maneuvers him to the bed, sitting him down with a _plop_ , right on top of something hard and rectangular. “Ow!”

Isak jumps up, rubbing his ass. Even pulls back the duvet. It’s a textbook. He holds it up and grins at Isak.

“That’s a sign. You need to study. And I have work to do.”

Even hands Isak the text book and stands, stretching his long neck for a quick kiss before exiting the room.

Isak follows him, holding the textbook. “Where are you going? Are you taking a tram home?”

At the doorway, Even puts on his shoes and ties the laces. “No, I’m going back to the Andersen. I just got an idea.”

“Even,” Isak says once, in warning, as Even wraps an arm around him, rubbing the tip of his nose to Isak’s.

“Good night, my love. Study and sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And then he’s gone.

Isak wanders to the bathroom and brushes his teeth, washes his face, and gets a glass of water from the kitchen. He goes to bed, reads from his textbook, and the words all swirl together. Interphase, mitosis, and cytokinesis―the page teems with life.

_My love._

He sleeps.

On Wednesday, the first half of their dress rehearsal is fast and smooth, suspiciously so. Isak finally gets the chance to see Eskild in action. He embodies Mercutio’s larger-than-life quality with unnerving confidence, leaping from platform to platform like it’s nothing. But there’s a gravity to his performance, too, one that Isak only sees in glimpses when they’re alone. When he tells Eskild as much, he preens, smug and pleased.

“You’re not bad either, Isak. I believe that’s customary to say. Now you respond with gratitude.”

“Thanks?”

Everyone’s bringing it. Julian doesn’t slouch anymore, Magnus is focused―every single member of the ensemble is on point.

Chris chews her nails off, worried that it means something’s wrong, because nothing is this easy.

Isak steps out into the rear alley during their Act III break; winds up leaning against Even’s shoulder while he smokes one of his hand-rolled cigarettes and tries to talk Chris down, with Eskild’s help. It’s an interesting process. Even gently asks her how the show looks from her box in the back of the theater, and doesn’t let her dwell too much on what could go wrong. He points out that part of the reason everything ran so well is because of her, while Eskild rubs her back reassuringly.

“It’s true. I have the best stage manager I could have wished for.”

Chris stares at Even with big, baleful eyes. “Shut up. You’re too good-looking to say such nice things to me.”

“You’re too beautiful not to say nice things to.”

Her cackle bounces off the stone walls of the theater, and Isak smiles at the two of them as their high-five turns into hand-holding, then a hug. Then Even turns around, grabs Isak’s face and kisses him on the mouth, and booms happily, “Once more unto the breach,” before striding through the door like a conquering king.

Isak stands there with his mouth open, and Chris looks at him and the door Even just exited. Eskild widens his eyes, shrugs, and kisses Isak on the mouth as well before following. Isak wipes his face, traumatized for the rest of the night, probably.

“Should I...kiss you, too? Do we do that now?”

He turns to her with a raised eyebrow. “No, we do not.”

“Booo,” Chris grouses. “Come on, let's do this.”

The rest of the show is even better than the first half. Isak doesn’t feel like he’s making conscious choices; he’s living the story, moment-to-moment. Juliet dies, he sinks down next to Even, and feels himself fading. It’s beautiful, this death is beautiful. This love is a strange love, extinguished as swiftly as a torch.

After the last lines ring out, the cast starts assembling onstage, and Even doesn’t wake up. He is cold to the touch, pale, and dead to the world. Isak says his name, quietly, then louder, but there’s no response. The whole cast circles them on the platform that doubles as their final resting place, and Isak grabs him by the arms, pulls Even up to his chest...and finally, finally Even blinks his eyes open.

Even stares at Isak, says, “I’m sorry, I fell asleep,” and smiles. “Did you think I died?”

Isak laughs along with everyone else, then goes to the single bathroom in the back of the dressing rooms and waits for the trembling in his hands to pass. When he looks in the mirror, he sees that his stage make-up is a smeared mess. Stine notices him cleaning his face and tells him she’ll pick up some waterproof mascara for tomorrow, so he won’t get black streaks running down his face.

“Thank you.”

It’s shitty, how little attention he’s paid to Stine, with her fresh-scrubbed, pretty, freckled face and those big brown eyes. Isak remembers how upset she was when Ragnar punched him.

“It looks worse than it is.” He winks.

In the hallway, he hears her with Even. By the time they’re done, Isak’s face is clean, and he’s wearing his own clothes. Even comes into the dressing room and pulls him forward by his jacket. “You are so hot.”

“Are you coming over?”

“I can’t. I am trying to figure out whether or not I can build a ramp in the audience. How much lumber I’ll need, and whether or not I’ll have time to sand it.” Even bites his thumb and widens his eyes. “I might. If I work all night.”

“A ramp?” Isak shakes his head. “Why?”

He bounces up and down on his heels. “I thought it would be cool if the Friar made his first appearance skateboarding in, and Jonas seems down.”

“Even, we open Friday night. Is this really a good idea?”

“It’s a fucking awesome idea, Isak.” Even grins, kissing him with a _mmm_ sound against his lips. “The best idea.”

“I have an even better one. Why don’t you _not_ build a last-minute piece of scenery, and come to my house, take a shower, and sleep.” Isak plays with Even’s zipper. He zips it up and down, making it sound like a record scratch. “Come on, E-Box.”

“Okay, what if I come over, take a shower, and not sleep because I’ll be too busy with you?” He laughs, and Isak’s never seen his eyes this shiny. “Why are we sleeping? We don’t need it. We can sleep when we’re dead.”

“Oh, you mean like you tonight?” Isak rolls his eyes. “I need to do some reading, and also outline a paper I have due next week.”

“You’re so sexy with your studying―I just popped a boner.” He shuffles forward.

“Oh my god,” Isak throws his head back.

“You said ‘outline a paper’; don’t say ‘outline a paper’ in front of me, Isak. That’s practically pornography.”

Isak’s hand goes to Even’s belt, and just as he’s about to get it off of him, Magnus runs in. “Yo, Isak, have you-”

He stops staring at them with wide eyes, his eyes go down to Isak’s hand at Even’s belt.

“Magnus,” Even says carefully in his low, deep voice. “This is exactly what it looks like.”

“Wow. Isak and Even. Romeo and Juliet. This is so dope.”

Magnus strides over to them and hugs them fiercely. Isak makes a face at Even over Magnus’s shoulder, but Even is too busy laughing to note Isak’s displeasure.

“Okay, I’ll leave you to do whatever you’ve got going on.” Magnus steps towards the door, stops. “Or do you need me to keep people from coming back here?”

“Go home, Magnus,” Isak hisses.

“Got it,” he says, finally leaving.

Isak slumps forward. Even leans down to whisper in his ear. “I’ll follow you home, you study and outline while I shower, then we can possess each other’s mansions.”

“Oh, shut up.” Isak kisses the cleft of Even’s chin, scowls at the smear of wet he left there, and rubs it off. “And yes.”

“And then you can sleep, and I’ll sketch a better ramp design.”

“Deal.”

In the end, there is no shower, no outlining, no studying. No fucking ramp. Possession of a sort takes place, and Isak wonders how he’d never thought about thighs as a sexual option before. Afterwards, he thinks Even stays awake. He falls asleep to the sound of a stylus tapping on a laptop screen.

Thursday is, in a word, a shitshow.

It’s announced that _Julius Caesar_ has been cancelled, due to several personnel leaving the production: Sana, Noora, Eva, as well as their stage manager, Vilde. The guys are completely surprised, but Isak isn’t. He passes Sana in the hallway and changes direction, walking with her to the courtyard and asking her about the first thing that comes to mind. Did she read that article on why mitochondria might have their own DNA?

“No, I haven’t. Send it to me, Isabell.”

“Oh, that’s original.”

“Thanks. I have something to send to you, too.”

Isak grins at her. She looks lighter than air. It’s an odd realization, how very beautiful Sana is. Her dimpled smile contains almost as much sunshine as Even’s. “Chillin’ like a villain, Sanasol?”

“Yes.”

“You left the production. And so did the rest of your crew.”

“Yes,” she says softly. “I didn’t expect that.”

“I don’t see why not. They have your back.”

She glances at him haughtily. “They do. I have to run to meet them. But I’ll send you that article.”

“What is it?”

Sana hesitates, then looks chagrined. “I was wrong. Which never happens. But. Anyway, I was, about this.”

“Vague much?”

Her hand rests on the bench, nearly next to his. They can’t shake hands. He researched.

“It’s about cohesion as a factor in evolution.”

Isak mouths the word silently. “Cohesion.”

“It’s a good word, isn’t it? Laters,” she calls over her shoulder, putting on her sunglasses.

The cast and crew of Romeo and Juliet were excused from classes, and had the whole day to run rehearsals, but before they can meet at the Andersen, they’re called to the school blackbox theater. Principal Fisker announces that Bille won’t be back for opening night, or for any performances this weekend. Everything is fine, but he can’t make it back from Skagen as planned. Sofia lets them know that they’ll delay opening by a week, to give Bille a chance to rehearse, and do four performances instead of five. Everyone grumbles and groans, and Even takes over. He smiles and tells them all to relax, as it will give them more time to be ready. When some of the first-year girls in the production ask him why he can’t play Romeo instead, he smiles and winks over at Isak.

“Well, maybe one more time. Sofia and Principal Fisker are allowing us to do another dress rehearsal tomorrow morning at the Andersen.”

Isak is of several minds.

  * He wants to tell those girls to find someone else to drool over.
  * He doesn’t want to wait another week.
  * He wants Even as his Romeo.
  * He wants Even all the time.



Also, Even is tired and could use the break.

Isak tells him as much. “You should come over and spend the weekend with me. Get some sleep.”

Even regards him with a lazy grin. “That sounds nice. You’ve been such a good boy.”

“Have I?” He raises his eyebrows. “Okay.”

“I’ll text you later. I need to go home.” Given what Even’s just said, the kiss that follows feels like a redaction. “Go outline.”

At 21, Isak gets a notification.

**When the world feels like it’s closin' in  
And you don't know what you know  
And you think about what’s holdin' you  
It's relatives and clothes  
Just leave it all behind**

**I have a surprise for you**

**oh yeah?**

**Yeah.  
Tomorrow, the play doesn’t really end  
We’re going to rewind and go back to the moment the lovers escape**

**what?**

**I don't care if we on the run  
Baby as long as I'm next to you  
And if loving you is a crime  
Tell me why do I bring out the best in you  
I hear sirens while we make love  
Loud as hell but they don't know  
They're nowhere near us**

**what are you doing tonight?**

**I’m going to take a shower  
And think of you**

Isak thumps his head against the wall.

**can you come over now?**

**Yes**

**then come over**

* * *

Even makes Isak pack for the weekend away, but won’t answer any questions.

It’s his last dress rehearsal with Even as his Romeo.

They make it count.

There’s no Juliet balcony, just the edge of the stage. Romeo leaves, but Juliet calls him back. Even leaps on the stage, and Juliet licks her lips and laughs.

“I have forgot why I did call thee back.”

Romeo leans in, so very slowly it makes Juliet break. He freezes right before touching her lips, then backs away. The gaze at one another, further than an arm’s length.

“Let me stand here till thou remember it,” he says. And as he says it, she comes closer and closer, slowly, and kisses him instead.

“I shall forget, to have thee still stand there, remembering how I love thy company.”

They kiss again, gently, and more, until someone whispers _damn_ offstage. Isak’s flustered enough to let the embarrassment show on Juliet’s face.

“And I’ll still stay, to have thee still forget, forgetting any other home-” Even slides his arms around Isak’s waist and presses their foreheads together, “-but this.”

“'Tis almost morning. I would have thee gone. And yet no further than a wanton’s bird, that lets it hop a little from his hand like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves, and with a silken thread plucks it back again, so loving-jealous of his liberty.”

“I would I were thy bird.” Romeo winks.

Juliet’s smile is slow and wicked. “Sweet, so would I. Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing.”

Magnus whispers, “I think that means she’s going to fuck him to death. Holy shit.”

The unmistakable sound of a slap on the back of the head follows.

Isak isn’t even mad. He feels like what champagne would taste like, if it were good.

Friar Laurence and Juliet crush their scene tonight, also. For the first time, Isak notices that the Friar costume, a short-sleeved button-down shirt is covered in red roses, and remembers what Jonas talked about at that first rehearsal.

“Isn’t it cool?” Jonas tells him during intermission.

“So cool.”

“How are things going?”

Isak smiles. “Awesome.”

“So,” Jonas scratches his chin. “Are you official? Because I felt like I was watching the real deal earlier.”

“I think so.” Isak’s not sure why, he doesn't want to assume. “But I don’t know. I kind of want to wait until the play is over. Thanks, by the way. I don’t know what you told Magnus, but I’m amazed he hasn’t sent out a mass text to everyone about us.”

“Thank Mahdi for that one. He told him he’d never let him freeload again if he said anything.”

“For real?” Isak smiles, and mentally adds Mahdi to the list of people he needs to start thanking every day.

“Yeah, bro. We ride or die. But-” he lowers his voice. “You guys were kissing a lot.”

“Noooooo,” Isak says, his loud laughter causing Even to look over with a raised eyebrow.

“Or it seemed like a lot, I don’t know. It felt like I shouldn’t even be looking. I had to work overtime to convince David and Ulrik that you were both acting and not like, hooking up for real.”

Across the room, Even is still watching him and Isak lets himself stare back.

After notes, and back in the dressing room, Isak remembers to text Sana.

**can I borrow your notes for today, Sanacaesar?**

***middle finger emoji*  
**

**too soon?**

**Lol, clever, Juliak.  
Yes, of course  
I’ve already taken special notes for you  
Color coded in that weird way you like**

**color coding is awesome  
you’re the best bio partner  
that’s not sarcasm  
you are**

**This is true  
Want to pick them up after your rehearsal?**

**can’t  
I’m getting kidnapped**

**Details?**

**I’ve been sworn to secrecy**

**Mysterious  
Have fun**

**I plan to  
sunday evening?**

**Sure, text me**

Isak smiles. He taps his finger against his cell phone screen and takes a deep breath. Isak types out another message. To Mamma. One he’s crafted a million different ways, but that’s not the one he sends. He keeps it simple. He tells her about Even, and not to worry. How that’s the most important thing. Her God wouldn’t hate him, and no matter what, he would be fine. He hopes she believes that, at least.

He hits send and breathes.

Isak brings his backpack outside and finds Even waiting in a white Tesla, sunglasses on his face.

“Nice wheels. My dad would love to have a Tesla.”

“A man with such priorities doesn't deserve this fine automobile.” He winks. “What film?”

“I don’t know. Some pretentious art film?”

Before he can put his phone away, it chimes with a text from an unknown number.

**Hi Isak**   
**This is Even’s Sonja**   
**We need to talk**

Even’s Sonja.

“Why is your ex texting me?”

His eyes widen. “What did she say?”

Isak holds up his phone, Even reads it.

“She, uh, doesn’t like to be left out of things. Particularly when she wants to control them.”

“Things? Like what? The play? You and me? Or just me?”

“Yes. To both. You. Everything.” Even rubs his nose, taps the steering wheel.

“That makes no sense.”

“Your hotness makes no sense, Isak. I think you already know this.”

The diversion shouldn't work. Isak hates that it works.

“Fine. Lets go.”

Isak throws his backpack in the back seat, slides into the car, and Even leans in to kiss him as he buckles. For a split second, Isak almost backs away, but it’s too late for that now. He takes charge of the kiss and leaves Even with his eyes closed and grinning.

“So what’s the plan?”

Even opens his eyes. “Today we escape.”

“Yeah, I got that.”

“Well...I could blindfold you, but I think I can just urge you to keep your eyes closed until we’re there.”

Isak narrows his eyes, skeptical. “We’re not leaving Norway, right?”

He shakes his head.

“Okay...good.”

“One more thing. Give me your phone.”

“Why?”

“No distractions. Just you and me.”

Isak hands him the phone.

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.” Isak nods. “I trust you.”

Even gazes at him for a long time, his beautiful face beaming. Then he flips Isak’s phone in his hand, turns it off, and puts it in his pocket. “Now close your eyes.”

Isak does, and Even kisses his cheek, smelling of clementines and cloves. Isak hears him plug in his own phone. Music plays, something Isak doesn’t know, and they take off.

There’s a moment where Isak cheats, opening his eyes to look at the sky. Wisps of clouds mar the perfect blue. Even sings along to the song, his voice a deep counterpoint to the singer’s soprano, and Isak gives in.

Closed eyes lead to sleep anyway, and Isak wakes up to the sound of car wheels on gravel. It’s not long after, judging from the lemon-and-blue colors of the sky. He sits up blearily, his neck hurting less than it should, probably because there was a hoodie wedged under his head. Even is in a t-shirt, rapping along to the song on the radio.

“Aren’t you cold?”

He turns to Isak with a lift of his brows. “Hello, sleepy. We’re here.”

Isak swallows, “Where’s here?”

“Nuh-huh. That’s against the rules. We are at our very own mystery vacation getaway.”

Isak opens the door to the car and gets out. The place is too big to be called a cabin. It’s a proper house―big, and painted a lively red. There are pine woods all around them. In the distance, Isak can see the fjord.

“Who are we staying with?”

“Ourselves.”

“Seriously? This whole house?”

Even nods.

“Wow.”

“Come on, let’s have a look.”

It’s so quiet that all their ordinary sounds seem amplified―the crunch of their feet on the gravel, the slam of the car door, bird song. Even disappears around the back of the house. Isak follows and watches as Even crouches by a low window and jimmies the handle. It opens inward. He pushes the other window open.

“Umm. What are you doing?”

Even wipes the corner of his mouth with a thumb, “Ummm, the key wasn’t where it was supposed to be, but we can get in this way.”

“Is this an Airbnb?”

“Yeah?”

“Why are you saying it like a question?” Isak laughs.

“It’s an Airbnb,” Even repeats, biting his lip. “Come on.” He goes in.

Isak stands there, looking around nervously. Inside the house, Even calls out, “Isaaaaak.” Something scurries in the trees. Isak knows it’s probably just a small animal, but he freezes anyway, listening hard.

“Isak.”

He jumps, and Even's standing right there, bending over with the force of his laughter.

“Oh no! I scared you.”

“No, you didn’t. I was startled.”

“Aaaaw.” Even puts his arm around him and pulls him to his side. “Let’s go inside.”

The house itself is cold but clean. The living room is painted soft gray, and Even moves around easily, bringing things in from the car.

“When did you buy groceries?”

“Before rehearsal.”

Isak goes up the stairs and finds three bedrooms. Only the master is made up; the mattresses are bare in the other rooms. There’s a fourth room, but it’s locked.

Even scratches the back of his neck. “That one’s locked.”

“Yeah, I got that.”

“Nothing in there, anyway.”

“You say that like you’ve been here before.”

Even shrugs. “I have.”

Isak is led to the master bedroom again, and he wanders over to the window. The fjord glimmers in the distance. “It’s beautiful here.”

“Yeah.” Even’s lying on his side on the bed. His finger scratches at the crisp white sheet.

“You look so tired―do you want to sleep?”

“No.”

He approaches the bed slowly, climbing on and sliding Even’s leg to the side with his knee. Even watches him in soft anticipation as Isak props himself over him, and then deliberately falls on top of him, a dead weight. It knocks a surprised _oof_ from Even.

“Good night.”

“No, you don’t.”

And Even doesn’t kiss him. He talks, saying things that Isak wants to swallow. Even mentions the summer and swimming, returning.

“The water isn’t far. I can see you and me there.”

It’s the mention of them as something past the play, past the school year, past the cold and into the warmth of July, that makes Isak surge forward. They kiss slowly, then. The heat in the house rises, and his sweater sleeve takes some work getting off.

* * *

Before the sky turns from cobalt blue, Even, bursting with energy, takes him down to the water. It’s not dark, but Isak doubts he could remember the way back, especially once they’ve veered off the obvious path.

Even’s got a camera, a big flashbulb attached, dangling around his neck, and Isak yawns.

They’re at the rocky beach in minutes, and Isak concentrates on not slipping on the dark, slick pebbles. He sits on a piece of driftwood while Even takes photographs of the water. Far off, a large ferry goes by, and Isak imagines all of the people on it, headed to their getaways or home.

“If I had to drown somewhere, I would want it to be here,” Even says, jumping from one rock to another.

“Why would you say that? Is this another morbid statistic?”

Even throws his head back, barking out a laugh. “Probably.”

An older couple appears, like fleece-clad apparitions in matching holiday-style knit hats. They’re tourists from London, and Even immediately strikes up a conversation with them in English. Isak follows it, mostly, but he keeps getting distracted by Even’s easy charm. He introduces Isak to them as “his boyfriend, Isak,” and even in another language, it sounds like the greatest thing he’s ever heard. He smiles helplessly, the wind picking up on the water, and he can’t feel his cheeks. But it’s alright, because Even puts his arm around him like he’s home.

They walk back another way. The forest is dark, and the pine needles crunch under their feet. Even seems to know where they’re going, confidently leading them down a worn path where tree roots protrude to make natural stairs. Isak proceeds more cautiously, worried about tripping on something and hurting himself.

At the bottom of the incline, hidden by a semi-circle of smaller trees, is a long table surrounded by mismatched wooden chairs. The table is set up for a tea party, with cups and saucers in front of each seat. All of it is overgrown with moss and ivy in a shroud of green, though, so the celebration has long since passed. To his right, Even takes a photograph.

“What is this?”

“Art.” Even takes a photo of Isak reaching out for one of the cups. “What do you think?”

“It’s cool. A little scary, too.”

“Like the fairies made them?”

Isak laughs. “No. Fairies, Even?”

“You touched the Fairies’ dinner plates. Which means the Fairy King is going to keep you. You won’t be able to leave.”

“What about you?”

Even smiles. “Oh, Isak. Don’t you know who I am by now?”

He gets them back to the house, and then they drive to a grand hotel the color of a dandelion, where Even picks up several bags of food and brings them back to the car.

“What is that?”

“I know someone that works there, and he hooked us up.”

Back at the house, he starts a fire. Isak watches Even sort the kindling from the fire wood, thinking, _boyfriend_ , _boyfriend_ , _boyfriend_.

His boyfriend puts all the food out. He and his boyfriend eat. His boyfriend has a smudge of sauce on his cheek.

“I know where we are.”

His boyfriend narrows his eyes.

“I saw it at the hotel.” Isak smiles. “So you may as well give me my phone.”

Even pouts and hands it back, and Isak turns it on. “Can I take a photo of us and post it?”

They pick a spot on the floor and bring their heads close together. Even turns and kisses him, the sound is loud in his ear, and Isak makes a face. They look ridiculous. Of course Even loves it.

“Post that one.”

“No, Even, we look like idiots.”

“May I?” Even reaches for Isak's phone, and he hands it over. Even holds it above their heads and moves closer. He kisses Isak and takes a photo while they do. Isak’s eyes are closed, but he hears the shutter, again and again.

“Now pick the one you like best.”

Isak does, and hesitates for a handful of seconds before uploading to insta. Only it doesn’t go through.

“There’s no fucking wifi.” Isak sighs and slips his phone in his pocket. “This Airbnb is not great, Bob.”

“ _Mad Men_. Nice.” Even embraces him. “Thank you for being here with me, Isak. You make me feel so wonderful.”

They’re unexpected, Even’s words, but they immediately curl up inside Isak’s heart. Because, yes, he feels wonderful too. Wonderful, wonderful.

The wind blowing through the pine trees outside sounds like singing. Isak is happy, but still hungry. He's tired, he’s forgotten the time, and yet, still he wants.

There are white sheets on the bed, and Even looms over him, pale and long. Isak doesn’t think about skin. The body is abstract. There’s his heart and his mind, and Even’s lips kissing his neck, and down his chest. The world goes white like a sheet, and the images projected on it are bodies. Not theirs, but all the lovers in the world, infinitely-loving, and infinitely in love.

Isak murmurs sleepily, “Bounty, sea, for both are infinite.”

“Infinite,” Even echoes, stroking his hair. “An infinite many.”

He falls asleep and wakes up to banging. Even’s in a closet, opening boxes.

“What are you doing?”

“I found some really cool stuff. I need to take some back to the theater.”

“Baby, it’s not yours. Come back to bed.”

Even does, for a little while.

The water runs in the tub.

There’s music.

Isak falls asleep.

Wakes up to the sound of rattling, a shaker egg, no. A bottle of aspirin.

The noises move downstairs.

Footfall, up and down the steps

Then finally quiet.

Around midnight, Isak wakes up to the sound of the front door slamming shut. He looks around in the dark and reaches out only to find the other side of the bed is unoccupied. It’s cold, even with the heat on. Cold, so cold. Shivering, he reaches for his clothing and dresses in the dark. Underwear, jeans, shirt and sweater, one sock, two.

“Even?” he says out loud, and coughs immediately after.

He wanders downstairs, there’s no one there. There’s no note on the table. His phone is charging, but there is no service. Isak opens the front door, but hears no sounds save for the wind in the trees. The Tesla is parked where they left it.

Slightly more awake, Isak goes back upstairs, searches the other bedrooms to see if maybe Even fell asleep there, but they’re empty.

Isak tries the locked door room on his way back to the stairs and to his surprise, it opens. Hesitantly, he steps over the threshold. It is a large bedroom, as big as the master, but the windows face the fjord. It’s nearly bare and smells faintly of bleach. There is a note on the bed, in Even’s writing. Isak picks it up, thinking it will be an explanation, but it isn’t. It only says, _hey june I miss you, do you miss me?_

Thirty minutes pass, and Even doesn’t return.

Hurriedly, Isak dresses for outside, making sure to take his phone in case he happens to get a signal. He’s too frightened about Even to be frightened about the woods. He barrels off in the direction they’d walked earlier, and it is dark, there’s no moon overhead. To his right, he can hear the sound of water lapping on rocks, and he follows it until he’s back on the same beach they were on earlier. With shaking hands, he turns on the flashlight on his phone. It’s empty. He trudges carefully through the stones and rocks to the fallen tree trunk he’d sat on, and there, he finds Even’s maroon hat.

He shines his light over the water, and there’s so much of it. The waves bob up and down in the dark and, “Even!” he shouts, loud enough to feel a scratch in his throat from the force of his yell. No response comes, not even an echo.

Moving back, he steps on something slippery and nearly falls. It’s green. A green notepad. Even’s green notepad, the pen is still stuck inside its metal spiral. He picks it up and opens it to the last entry. It’s just tiny, tiny stretches of handwritten words. They go across each line and then snake past the lines, filling out the bottom margins, then both sides and back to the top. Isak flips back. There’s pages of the stuff, and it frightens him. He can feel his heart beating in his mouth.

Isak knows he should probably leave these things where he found them, but he can’t. He stuffs Even’s hat under his jacket, puts his notepad in a side pocket, and listens for sounds, any sounds that might be a person, walking or in distress. Even’s not on the pebbly shore. Isak refuses to believe he’s in the water (no matter what Even said earlier). He stumbles and slides back to the gravel path, and tries to remember where they turned in the woods. Was it those two pines, leaning close to one another, wind-sculpted, or are they not tall enough? That stone slab looks familiar, was it that? Isak touches the cold surface, dotted with sunburst-shaped lichen and enters the thicket, pressing the hand holding Even’s hat to his chest.

He walks in the dark, trips onto the damp earth and gets up again; it’s useless, there’s nothing, Even’s not here. Isak’s alone and lost.

Moss grows on the north side of trees. He walks.

There’s something there in the darkness, above him. It makes a strange, whooshing sound, like delusion; Mamma’s angels arriving with a message.

Isak turns sharply, aiming his phone flashlight with a shaking hand, and there, in the pine tree behind him, staring back, are four, no, five, no six white-and-gray-colored owls. Rising above their heads are long, black ear-tufts. They don’t move or make any noise at all. One of them opens its wings, slowly, as if it’s about to fly. Its bright yellow eyes shine in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> canon-aligned content warnings: canon-typical sexuality, mental health, manic episode, fear of self-harm and suicide, owls
> 
> oof. you still with me? this chapter was long so next week's may update later in the week to give people time to catch up. two more to go and then we're done. thank you for following me so far.
> 
> songs for this chapter are:
> 
>  _Champagne Weekend_ by Blood Orange  
> (Morning After II)  
>  _Into You_ by Ariana Grande  
> ("Our Song")  
>  _Fight Sleep_ by Dagny  
> (Who needs sleep)  
>  _Young, Fresh 'N' New_ by Kelis  
> (The lovers flee)  
>  _Staring at the Sun_ by TV on the Radio  
> (The walk/My boyfriend)  
>  _Breathe_ by The White Birch  
> (Outro)
> 
> soundtrack can be listened to [**here**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G3Co9GxHJg0&list=PLWfM4lhzgKQWns3CZDlp5Y_NFhjrQyaV)


	9. Four words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sonja’s gone quiet again, and Isak watches the changing landscape. Dimly, he’s aware that he’s crying, but he’s also trying not to, so his mouth wavers. He keeps it in place with his fingers over his lips for the next half-hour. The radio is silent, the car is too, and Isak feels like there isn’t enough oxygen in his lungs. He lifts his head toward the roof of the car; he’s a swimmer, sticking his head out of the water.
> 
> Once in downtown Oslo, they pass the Radisson Blu on the right, and instinctively, he knows this is where he should get out. When Sonja stops at the first light on Lyberkkegata, Isak turns to her and says, “Thank you for the ride. I’m sorry,” and exits the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see end notes for mild canon-adjacent content warnings

Isak barely knows how to drive; his dad started teaching him the summer he turned sixteen, but it didn’t really take. He hates cars, certain that as soon as he gets behind the wheel, he’ll crash. Or kill someone. He’ll space out, thinking about something stupid, and he’ll never be able to take back that moment. So he hasn’t bothered continuing, figuring there was plenty of time to consider it again once he turned eighteen.

The Tesla sits in the driveway; its headlights look like eyes. The door is unlocked, and the keys are inside. Since Isak can’t drive it, he doesn’t know why Even left it―did it need to be charged? Plugged in somewhere? How do electric cars even work? He has no idea.

It’s 5.04, and Even hasn’t come back. Isak found the house relatively quickly after backing away from the owls. Adrenaline’s a great internal compass.

He’d hoped Even would be there, smiling and joking, but it was empty still. Isak sits in the kitchen and waits, too exhausted and frightened to close his eyes and give.

Isak holds his phone to his chest, then places it on the table, horizontally. He revolves it slowly, short side to long side, then turns it again. The edges tap the wood. He opens instagram to see if his photo with Even ever posted. It didn’t. He stares at the photo for a long time, trying to find clues in the tilt of their heads, their closed eyes, the clasp of their lips. Isak doesn’t know what he was thinking, trying to post that. He deletes the draft.

The light is changing outside.

Taking dumb selfies, posting memes, saying dumb shit in group chats, and not sleeping. Monday to Friday, Friday to Sunday, repeat, repeat, repeat. He opens his camera roll to look at the photos he took with Even. Was all this more of the same? Another game of pretend?

The last photo isn’t from their impromptu insta-photoshoot. It’s not a photo at all, it’s a video. Even’s face is blurry, and Isak can see the white flash of his teeth. He presses play, and Even’s moving his lips, he’s talking, pushing his lank hair back. Isak raises the volume and accidentally skips ahead, catching the end of Even’s final sentence― _because we’re stars_.

He presses play again. Even speaks, or rather, he laughs first.

“Isak, you’re sleeping, but you’re breathing, so I’m not worried. You’re so hot when you sleep; I want to make a movie where you sleep, and you’re the still point, ‘the still point of the turning world’...” He trails off, staring at something away from the screen, then returns, with a giggle. “I can’t find a pen, fuck, this is why this is a video and not a note. Anyway, I’m moving in the background, but all sped up, and you’re completely still, like a music video.” Even bites and bites his lower lip. “I’ve been afraid to come back here, but you make it okay, because you’re the sun. The sun needs to sleep, though.” He looks at the camera sheepishly, his smile growing. “‘Why art thou yet so fair? Shall I believe that unsubstantial death is amorous, and that the lean abhorrèd monster keeps thee here in dark to be his paramour?’ But,” he shakes his head ruefully, “I can’t stay. I’m a terrible Romeo to a perfect Juliet, who makes everything brighter. That’s so fucking good, you have no idea. We very nearly have everything we need for the play; light and dark, and time. I think I’ve done all I can do with light and dark, but haven’t gotten time yet. How do I show time? Do I use sound, do I use the sound of a ticking clock and play that the whole way through the play? That’s so cliché. You know someone’s dad would think it was Pink Floyd or something, and expect that song to start. Besides, Eliot is an asshole, even though he wrote ‘descend lower, descend only, into the world of perpetual solitude, world not world, but that which is not world, internal darkness.’ It’s light and dark all the time, from the first night humans ever experienced, really experienced and understood.” Even touches his bottom lip with a thumb, eyes moving rapidly from right to left as if he’s reading his own thoughts. “And that’s what Romeo and Juliet are, in a way. To me. The first love, like the first night. The first light and first darkness. Our first stories. ‘Words move, music moves, only in time; but that which is only living, can only die.’ R and J are smart to die. They get to keep their love. They never lose it, it is a fixed point. Words are important, even Eliot’s, and I’m going to find a way to use words. I’ll go back round to the start, and-” he makes a circular motion with his index and middle fingers, followed by a jab. “-and connect them. You are so important too, Isak, and you need to sleep, and I need to go. I can’t find my charger right now, I think I left it in the theater, but I’ll plug in. I’m just going to work for a bit. Don’t get dressed.” He smiles. “Be naked, always. Be naked infinitely. Somewhere in the universe, there’s a you and me that never need to get dressed because we’re stars.”

Even’s eyes shine as if he's lit from within, his laugh is soft. The camera trembles on him and stops.

Isak is lost. That’s him, it’s Even―the same Even that accelerates Isak’s heart rate. His boyfriend, Even. But the things Even’s saying don’t match his expressions, like the sound isn’t synced with the image, and his words don’t make sense. Did he leave? Is he coming back? Should Isak wait? This is not right. Every detail of his face is just as it has always been, and yet... Isak’s stomach lurches, but he doesn’t move; his phone stays in his hand.

Around noon or so, judging by the warm yellow glare of the room, the front door is unlocked, and Isak wakes from his half-sleep. A young woman wanders in, carrying several bags and talking on her cell in Arabic. She’s got a wild mane of unruly black hair and a nose ring. Her boots are pink. Isak doesn’t know how to draw attention to himself without scaring her, so he watches her unzip those boots and put on a pair of clogs, still talking animatedly to whoever she has on the line. She exits the kitchen, leaving her purse on the counter, and he listens to her voice as she runs the tap in the downstairs bathroom. Less than a minute later, she returns in a smock, with that hair tied up in a top knot. She ends the call and plugs her phone in, turning in his direction, patting her pockets.

Isak slumps a little to look smaller, places his hands on the tabletop, and when the girl is nearly facing his way, waves. She screams and backs up to the counter.

“Please, don’t be scared. My name is Isak.”

She shakes her head and reaches for her purse and phone.

“I’m. I can’t make any calls. I have no reception. Do you speak Norwegian?”

“A little,” the young woman manages.

“Here.” He holds up his phone, pointing to his lack of signal. “Can I use your phone to call a friend who can explain?”

Isak mimes making a call on her phone. She stares blankly at him.

“Even. I’m Even’s...friend. He rented this house on Airbnb.”

“Even?” She seems to recognize the name and passes Isak her phone.

“Thank you, thank you.” He dials Even’s number, and it goes straight to voicemail. “Even, it’s me calling from the housekeeper’s cell. She seems surprised to see me here. Where did you go? Please call me back at her number.”

He texts Even, as well. The screen reads “delivered.”

Isak looks at the time and screws his eyes shut. “One more,” he asks, holding a finger up. She nods.

“Please answer the phone,” he whispers as it rings. It’s answered. “Sana. It’s Isak. I need your help.”

* * *

Isak explains the situation, deliberately keeping the circumstances with Even vague, and remarkably, Sana has few questions. She has Isak pass the phone over to the young woman, who hands it back when their rapid-fire conversation is over. Her name is Khadija, and she knows Even somehow. Sana tells him not to worry, that Khadija gave her the address, and that she’ll call Even’s parents for him and ask someone to pick him up. He should sit tight and not stress. He realizes that he’s hysterical, then, because after Sana hangs up, Khadija pats him gently on the back. He slumps forward on the table, his hands on his forehead.

“I’m sorry.”

Khadija brings him a glass of water. “Drink,” she says in Norwegian, and he nods.

He goes upstairs and packs his things. Then he packs Even’s belongings, and brings both backpacks down. They didn’t bring much with them. He doesn’t bother with the groceries.

An hour later, a car pulls up to the house. He runs to the door. Sonja gets out.

_Fuck._

She nods at Khadija, then looks at Isak. “That’s Even’s,” she says, and grabs Even’s backpack, and puts it in the trunk. Isak stands there holding his.

“Yes,” he murmurs.

“Get in.”

Isak nods at Khadija, whispers _thank you_ , and gets into the passenger seat, buckling his seatbelt.

For the first ten minutes, Sonja says nothing at all, and Isak checks his phone for any sign of life.

“Thank you for driving me.”

She shakes her head, and doesn’t look at him, and honks at someone on the road. “You should have called earlier.”

“I didn’t have reception.”

“I mean when I called.” Sonja laughs mirthlessly. “This is ridiculous.”

It was easy to forget, while the romance was happening, that Even had a girlfriend. Their own relationship felt much more important. He thinks about Eva sneaking around with Jonas―but that was her best friend she was betraying. Isak doesn’t know anything about Sonja. He can’t even remember her last name.

Even left. Isak is getting a ride home from Even’s ex-girlfriend. Isak’s in the wrong, it would seem. He knows he doesn’t have the right to ask, but he needs to know, has to ask.

“Have you heard anything?” His voice comes out husky and hoarse. He clears his throat. “What are Even’s parents doing? Have they called the police? What's going on?”

“Why would they call the police? The police called _them_.” There are silver bangles stacked on her wrist, and they clink together harshly as she drives. “Even was detained for breaking into the Andersen theater.”

“What?”

“His parents are bringing him home right now.”

“He’s okay?!” Isak breathes out, “Oh, thank God.” He puts his face in his hands and struggles not to cry.

“Did you hear what I just said? He was detained.”

“Yes, but he’s okay. So...he was in jail? I don’t understand. He has the keys to the theater?” Isak blinks exhaustedly. Now that he knows Even’s fine, all of his tiredness hits him hard. “He’s okay,” he repeats, closing his eyes.

“He set off the alarm when he went up to the roof. He put paint on all the costumes and brought them up there to ‘air dry.’”

“Paint? I don’t get it.” Isak shakes his head. “What happened?”

“He’s having an episode.”

“An episode,” he repeats.

“He’s manic.”

 _Is he?_ Isak thinks. He’s read about this before, with Mamma. Only that wasn’t right. Those weren’t her symptoms. “No.”

Sonja casts an incredulous look at him, then turns back to the road. “He’s been manic. You haven’t noticed because it probably seemed like he was having a good time. Smoking, and drinking, and doing God knows what with you―all those things are triggers.”

“Triggers?”

“He’s MANIC. And having an EPISODE.”

He doesn’t know why she’s getting louder and repeating herself. It doesn’t help him understand. “I’m sorry, I don’t-”

“Apparently, Even thought it would be a good idea to go back to Oslo from Jeløya, but there are no trains from Moss station until 5. So he hitchhiked back to the city, thankfully with someone who didn’t try to rob him.”

“Why didn’t he take the car?”

She ignores him and keeps talking through gritted teeth. “He went to the Andersen Theater and started building some kind of skating ramp. He abandoned that because he also decided to paint the stage. And then he took that paint and painted the costumes, too.” Sonja laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Meanwhile, you, the dumb kid Even’s playing house with because you’re ‘his Juliet’, is sleeping away in the place you both broke into.”

“He-” Isak’s throat is dry and it catches. “He told me it was an Airbnb.”

“Oh, do you know a lot of unemployed 19 year-olds still in high school who can rent Airbnbs?” Sonja spits out. “That’s not an Airbnb. That’s his aunt’s house. And it’s in the process of being sold.”

“His aunt?” He recalls Even at the window, Isak’s curtain in his hand―a grave angel.

“You really don’t know anything about him.” She stops talking and breathes in and out slowly through her mouth. Her hands relax slightly on the steering wheel, but the knuckles stay white. The silence in the car feels crushing.

Is that true? Does he not know anything about Even? He turns over everything they’ve told each other in his mind. Even said he'd never felt this way before. So did he. That is no lie.

“You know who his first Juliet was? Me. Do you get it? This thing with you is a delusional do-over. He thinks he should love you because of the play. It’s another one of his ‘great’ ideas. That it’s all one thing, the play and his life. It’s not real, none of it is real. It’s play-acting. Fantasy.”

His eyes are burning, and his hands feel weird, like he’s losing sensation in them. He shifts in his seat.

“Even is unwell, and all of this was a colossal fuck-up on your school’s part. They should have never let him direct. His parents gave him too much freedom.”

“Is there anything I can do to help him?”

“Honestly?” She sighs again, seemingly exhausted. “No. You’re a trigger. Just leave him alone, please. He’s sick.”

Isak doesn’t know what to do. He takes out his phone, and there are bars, so he texts,

**where are you  
I need help  
it’s bad**

He can’t stop shaking. He grips his phone tightly.

**I’m coming from Grønland  
Tell me where you are**

**I’m in a car  
with Even’s girlfriend  
I have to get out**

**Okay  
Stay calm  
Don’t jump out  
Have her pull over and  
Meet me outside the National Theater**

Sonja’s gone quiet again, and Isak watches the changing landscape. Dimly, he’s aware that he’s crying, but he’s also trying not to, so his mouth wavers. He keeps it in place with his fingers over his lips for the next half-hour. The radio is silent, the car is too, and Isak feels like there isn’t enough oxygen in his lungs. He lifts his head toward the roof of the car; he’s a swimmer, sticking his head out of the water.

Once in downtown Oslo, they pass the Radisson Blu on the right, and instinctively, he knows this is where he should get out. When Sonja stops at the first light on Lyberkkegata, Isak turns to her and says, “Thank you for the ride. I’m sorry,” and exits the car.

Isak is sorry. That’s also not a lie. Sonja drove out there and drove him back to the city. She didn’t have to do that. Inside his jacket is Even’s hat.

He speedwalks to the National Theater, first checking whether Eskild means the station or the theater itself. The latter choice is right. Eskild waits underneath the glowering statue of Ibsen. When he sees Isak, he immediately embraces him. Isak clutches the soft material of Eskild’s jacket.

“Let’s just get you home.”

It’s not cold anymore, not cool at all, but Isak keeps his hand in his pocket the whole way home, curled inside Even’s hat.

* * *

The news spreads, the way news does, rapidly and stupidly. The cast’s called for an emergency meeting Monday morning with Principal Fisker and Sofia again. He has an idea of what lies ahead. He gets a text from Bille:

**I’m back. Do you know what’s going on?**

**we’ll talk tomorrow  
is everything okay?**

**Yeah, mom’s home with me.**

**awesome**

He cries. Not for long―maybe five minutes.

He googles ‘manic episode’ and reads. Manic Depression, Bipolar Disorder. Reads some more. One article leads to another, and then another. Isak did this before, this same search, two years ago. It didn’t fit the circumstances then. But now? Yes, yes it does.

He stills and feels the heaviness of the last 24 hours crash over him like an avalanche.

Eskild brings him some tomato soup. It’s the powdered stuff Mamma used to make that he always secretly loved. But he only manages a couple of sips before he closes his eyes and is gone.

His notifications start blowing up around 21.00. Even, texting. He must’ve gotten his phone back. None of it is conversation, just more song lyrics.

**Over and over and over and over and over,  
Like a monkey with a miniature cymbal,  
The joy of repetition really is in you.  
Under and under and under and under and under,  
The spell of repetition really is on you,  
And when I feel this way I really am with you.**

Isak stares at the words that don’t stop. Even keeps sending them, chunks of text. One after the other.

**I put up on a string today  
Deciding never taught me a thing  
A wooden box breathes the way  
Never again  
Never again  
Never again  
Never again  
All this talk is getting me down  
Nothing's making sense in my brain  
I'm moving words in course of today  
Trying hard to fix through the pain  
I'm waiting to the thought that we came  
Only to discover I'm aged  
And blow a quart of love in your frame  
And watch things drop down**

And.

**Excuse me sir, I'm lost I'm looking for a place where I can get lost  
I'm looking for a home for my malfunctioning being  
I'm looking for the mechanical music museum  
This is a warning I'll spell it out for you, for you  
This is a warning I'll spell it out for you  
Excuse me miss I'm a dog on heat  
I'm a complicated being with love songs to beat  
I'm a problem solving baby who could march all night  
I'm a mechanical music man and I'm starting a fire  
Excuse me child, I am trying to see all the colors and wonder your brightness can be  
Return to nothingness and joy just might be right**

Finally, Isak replies.

**stop texting me.**

_I don’t understand_ , he thinks.

**please**

...he adds, an afterthought.

Miraculously, the texts stop.

Eskild stands in the doorway.

“Hey. How are you doing?”

“I’m okay.”

“It will pass, Isak. I promise you. It always does.”

Isak nods. Eskild does as well. He’ll return. It’s implied in that nod.

Isak’s phone chimes. He takes a deep breath and looks down to read.

**Baby  
my Isak**

**“Love is patient, love is kind  
It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud  
It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.  
Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.  
Love never fails.” **

**I love you so much  
from the moment I heard you cry out in a gargle like you’d breached the surface of the waters  
and you were placed in my arms and stopped crying  
on 21.21, 21 of June**

**to now and forever**

**I will always love you  
You are my sweet, sweet boy  
Please know that**

The tears roll down his face, and he holds the phone to his chest. He hadn’t realized how important it was to see those words. How much he needed them in his heart.

His sleep is a warmer thing.

* * *

Principal Fisker isn’t at the meeting, but Sofia is.

Isak sits at the front next to Bille and Chris. Chris looks as exhausted and teary as Isak feels. She reaches out to grab his hand, and he lets her. He needs it just as much as she does, really.

“Here’s the deal. Even is incapacitated, and he will not be available to see the show through your final dress rehearsals. However, your Romeo has returned, so if you are all willing to move forward without your director present and giving you notes, you are welcome to do so, and guide yourselves to the show’s opening. If you don’t feel confident, we can cancel. We wanted to give the choice to you.”

The cast bursts into a frenzy of argument, and Sofia’s eyes widen. “Okay, okay. One at a time. Julian No. 1. What is it?”

Julian Dahl stands up, casting an apologetic glance at Julian Mahler. “I heard that our set and costumes were destroyed. Is that true?”

Sofia shakes her head. “The stage is painted white, but Ms. Christina Berg assures me she knows where all the glow tape needs to be. As for the costumes, they’re not exactly what you all tried on anymore, but I can say that Even’s artistic vision was clearly the impetus behind the choice; so you can make it work, even though it won’t be what you expect. I’ll be more than happy to show you what he did.” She grabs a garment back from the back of her chair and unzips it. Isak’s white-on-white costume from the morning-after scene.

It looks the same, except when she turns it sideways―there it is, in black paint, the word ‘angel’ in a wide, loopy, lower-case cursive.

“He has put names and words in black paint on all the white costumes, and in white paint on the all-black costumes. Christina and Ivar Henrikshaugen already checked the lighting against his changes, and the images still come across.”

Isak looks at that word, _angel_. He wants to touch it.

Jonas raises his hand. “And the skater ramp?”

“Stage crew members Ivar and Sondre Foss already dismantled it this morning. You will not be skateboarding inside the theater, Jonas. It’s a liability issue.”

There’s some laughter, and Jonas sits down again.

“Yes, Isak?”

He hadn’t even realized he had his hand up. “Umm. What do you mean ‘guide ourselves’?”

“I mean, figure out who will replace Even as a note-giver. It doesn’t have to be one person; it can be several. But be advised, more than two people in charge usually leads to confusion.” Sofia narrows her eyes into slits and peers at seemingly every single person present. “I asked Principal Fisker to not be involved because I think you all are more than CAPABLE of solving your OWN PROBLEMS.”

It says a lot that Isak isn’t even jarred by her sudden changes in volume anymore.

“Talk among yourselves. Please let me know before 15.00 today.”

No one speaks, but slowly a group comes together at the front of the room. Chris, Ivar, Maja, and Stine represent the crew. Bille, Jonas, and Julian Dahl stand in for the actors.

Julian speaks first. “We should go on. Even did so much work. We know what this show is supposed to look and feel like. We should go up on Friday, as planned.” He gestures towards Juliet’s costume. “And I like what he did with the costumes.”

“Me too,” Isak says.

Chris nods. “Isak, have you heard anything?”

It takes him a moment to realize she’s talking about Even. “No, I haven’t.”

“Bille?”

Bille shakes his head no and glances at Isak.

“Well, if either of you see him or talk to him. Please tell him we hope everything is okay.”

“Yeah, of course,” Bille says.

Isak doesn’t say anything. What can he say? _Sorry, everyone. I was just a delusion. I don’t know him at all._ Even’s smile fills his head, along with the smell of butter cookies and coffee. He has to remind himself that Even’s home with his parents and Sonja. That he’s probably doing better. That he’s safe.

Julian pipes in again, bringing Isak back to the present. “I’m going to ask Sofia for Even’s notes, in case there was any last-minute stuff he forgot to add.”

“The ending,” Isak blurts. “He doesn’t like it.”

“The ending?” Julian asks, furrowing his brow.

Chris blinks. “He wants to change the _ending_ to _Romeo and Juliet_?”

“I don’t know―he just said he wanted to do something else, that it was too static.” Isak remembers he has Even’s green work notepad. “I might have some of his notes; I can look.”

Hiro speaks up; his deep voice is always jarring. “We wrote some additional music, Ulrik, Mahdi and I. We can figure out if there’s a way to play it between scenes, or maybe at the end.”

“And I think we can do some movement work today after the run-through, and see if there’s anything we can add-”

“You mean like an epilogue?” Julian asks.

Maja nods.

“So we’re doing this?” Bille asks. “Because I just came back from Skagen with my sick mom, and if I have to do this play by myself in the gym, I will, but I’d rather do it with all of you.”

Julian raises his hand, then gestures between himself and Maja. “We can give notes. Both of us have had in-depth conversations with Even about the production, and we feel comfortable looking out for what he wants.” He turns to Isak. “Can you help?”

“Me?”

“You know this play better than anyone.”

Everyone in the room turns to him. Isak sits up from his slouch. “Uh,” he starts, suddenly overwhelmed. “I don’t think I can.”

“That’s okay, just let us know if we’re straying,” Julian says.

Maja nods. “I agree. Even always runs everything by you first.”

 _He does?_ Isak thinks.

“We’ll call an early rehearsal tonight and run through everything, see how it goes. But I think we’re going ahead,” Julian says, looking around the room. Everyone nods. “So we’ll tell Sofia the answer is yes. We’re opening on Friday as planned.”

They return to classes, and after the crawl of the afternoon has passed, they reconvene at the Andersen. During the first costume-less run-through, Isak’s a mess. It’s as if everything he had worked for―and he had worked―just vanishes. So much of Isak’s performance was put together for Even to look at and comment on. Playing Juliet without him there as witness drains the role of meaning.

During their fifteen-minute break, Isak goes outside into the back alley. It’s fucking freezing, and he doesn’t bring his coat. He’s joined by Jonas and Magnus. Jonas throws Isak a hoodie, and he zips it up.

“So what’s going on? Can you say?”

His friends have kept his secrets so far, and he knows they’ll continue to do so.

“We went out to Jeløya for the weekend and, uh, Even left me there and came back to the Andersen. Then he did all that shit, then the cops came because he tripped the alarm, and yeah. He went crazy.”

Magnus laughs. “What? He really did all that in one night? I thought it was one of David’s fake gossip stories.”

“David Furevold knew?”

“He said that Even broke into the theater, and built a skate ramp, and fucked up our costumes. Classic.”

“It’s not funny.” Isak wants to hit Magnus right now, but he’s also too tired to move.

“It kinda is. Dude, my dress says ‘DURR’ on it. That’s hilarious.”

“Well, it was an episode. He's manic. He has bipolar disorder.”

“For real? My mom has bipolar.”

Isak frowns. “Your mom is crazy, too?”

Magnus scratches his chin. “No, my mom has bipolar, and she’s fucking awesome. You’ve both met her. She’s the shit.”

“But she’s normal.”

“Yeah, of course she’s normal. She just goes through some ups and downs. It’s not a big deal.” Magnus opens up a packet of potato chips. “So how’s Even doing now? Is he on his way down yet?”

“Down?” Jonas asks, holding out his hand for some chips. Magnus doles several out with near-comedic exactness.

“From being up.”

“I don’t know. I haven’t talked to him.” Isak shrugs. “His girlfriend told me I had to leave him alone.”

Jonas raises his eyebrows. “His ex, you mean.”

“Why?” Magnus asks.

“Because he’s been manic this whole time, and I’ve been a part of all that.”

Magnus stops chewing. “Even hasn’t been manic for months, Isak. He only seemed a little amped last week, but I thought that was just the play. When my mom’s really been in it, I don’t even know what she’s fucking saying. But he’s been communicating with you this whole time. When did he stop making sense to you?”

“Sunday morning.”

“Okay. So?” Magnus hands the rest of his bag to Jonas. “He’s home now, dude. He’s going to be okay.”

Jonas whistles. “That’s good to hear.”

“You can’t make a big deal out of these things.” Magnus smiles. “Do I have anything in my teeth?”

“Nah, dude, you’re good.” Jonas gives him an okay sign.

“Cool.” Magnus turns his attention back to Isak. “So, have you spoken to him?”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?” Jonas asks.

Isak shrugs. “Sonja says it won't help. I’m a ‘trigger’ or something.”

The expression on Magnus’s face is thoroughly unimpressed. “But they broke up. Everybody knows that. Why is his ex telling you who you are to Even?”

“He-”

“Dude. You’re in a relationship with Even, not Sonja. Wait for him to chill out, and then talk to him. Find out what he wants.”

Isak nods. His smile is small but hopeful.

Jonas raises his palm. “I’ve been out-wised.”

“Fuck yeah.” Magnus high-fives him back.

Stine pops her head out of the door. “Ten minutes to places, guys.”

After rehearsal, Isak takes the tram, then goes into his room, practically barreling into Linn on the way there. He shuts the door and calls Even. The phone rings once, and someone picks up. Then there’s a dial tone.

Thinking it was a dropped call, Isak waits for Even to call him back. Ten minutes pass, but nothing happens. Isak tries again, and this time it goes straight to voicemail. “Hi, it’s me. Call me when you can.”

Isak deflates. He sinks back onto the bed and feels himself emptying until he’s nothing. Cindy looks down at him. Her expression isn’t sultry. From this angle, she looks frightened. All oiled up, sleek in her red bathing suit, and terrified.

“I miss him,” he says to the poster, only not really, well-aware that he's alone. He rolls over and falls into a heavy, troubled sleep.

* * *

During lunch, Isak eats by himself. He tells Jonas that he just needs a break, but really he wants to check his phone in peace without curious eyes following him. Sana brings him a coffee. She squeezes his shoulder, talks about what he missed in class, and says his hair looks nice despite needing a cut.

She touched his shoulder; he didn’t know she could do that.

Class is a blur, but he goes and goes. He has to get through dress rehearsals―they have to make opening night.

His phone chimes and he scrambles to see who it is. Isak groans when he sees Vilde’s name.

**Hey, Isak  
I heard from some people  
that Even has serious mental problems  
As a friend, I thought you should know**

**where did you hear this?**

**From someone who knows someone at Bakka**

**give me a fucking break**

**Whether or not the rumors are true, he’s your director  
I’m sorry**

Isak stops walking and takes a deep breath and counts to ten. Then he types, his thumbs moving so fast it’s like a sped-up film.

**look, what if you did  
something stupid or embarrassing or upsetting  
would you want everyone telling everybody  
as a friend?  
grow the fuck up**

They start dress with a full cast warm-up, and then Maja asks them to do the same movement exercise they did early on. This time it’s not New Age music; it’s nearly the same people participating, but it feels different. Isak knows most of the cast now. Susanna is an amazing poet and performs in slams around the city. Ulrik is crazy good at beatboxing, Erik is a ballet dancer, and poor Oda still can’t whistle, so she wears one around her neck that she blows shrilly in her only big scene. David is a gossip, but he’s also hilarious, with a high breathless sort of laugh that’s weirdly infectious. Emil speaks five languages, and is some kind of programming genius. Encountering them now, there’s a mutual respect, headier than any courtyard deference in a theater game. Isak’s own friends, his boys, have his back. Magnus cradles him in his arms, and Isak closes his eyes, opening them up to Mahdi bowing but backing away. Jonas marks a cross on his forehead, then embraces him, letting him go just as Gregard passes, grabbing him by the arm. Isak goes limp and gets swung around as Jens steps over him. Nils kneels down where Isak slumps, and, with Gregard, lifts Isak up and overhead. He’s carried, lighter than air, across the stage in slow-motion. At one point, Isak’s spun, and he stretches his arms to the floor to take his own weight into a headstand; but then there are new bodies taking hold of him, and Eskild, Mahdi, and Tore lift his body up again.

Isak’s not himself at all; he’s a cloud. He flies through the space, his arms reach out, and they feel as slender as birch branches. Isak reaches further and imagines leaves shooting through his fingertips, just as his feet touch the ground. Bille stands in front of him, and, for a second, Isak wants to turn away because it’s not Even, pointing to a post-it. It’s not his smile. But then Bille holds his palm up, and Isak accepts―says _yes_.

They circle one another, their palms turning inward, hands right by each other’s faces. Romeo smiles at Juliet, puts his arms around her waist, and they spin. Isak lands on his toes when the music stops.

Everyone claps, exhilarated, and Isak smiles, stunned by the experience. Somehow, Bille and Isak wound up at the center of the stage. This is not like him, all of this, but here he is enjoying it, the fixed point.

In the dressing room, Isak puts on his costume and make-up. Then Eskild sits across from him, and, with an arched eyebrow, silently fixes it. The pre-show music plays from the list that Even eventually whittled down, and Isak sets a reminder to tell Chris to add one more track. For now, he prepares to the songs he’s heard over the past few weeks via Even, until finally, it’s down to the last two: _Dark Night_ and _Romeo and Juliet_. During the latter, Biz Markie’s final “Romeo and Juliet gettin’ busaaaay”s repeat over the theater sound system, Stine counts down to places, and Isak’s heart accelerates in matching time. The white-clad chorus, Oda, Maria, Silje, Eline, Julian Mahler, Hiro, and Emil, line up in the dark and walk on stage, taking their positions. Isak tries to read the words on their costumes as they pass the dim red-lit entrances―the sleeve of a shirt, a side of pant leg. He only sees one: _love_.

There’s a hand on his back. It’s Bille, who gives him a ridiculous thumbs-up, then takes his hand and steers him out from the wings to their spot upstage. Isak grabs the red sash sewn over Bille’s chest, and Bille does the same with Isak’s. They walk away from one another, slowly, unfurling the red sashes as they go. Romeo and Juliet are in the dark, two connected figures, but as soon as Emil says, “Two young lovers take their life,” the lights go hot on them, and quickly, they pull each other closer, winding the fabric around their wrists.

This run-through is better. Not great, but better. The energy is still draggy, a bit listless, and Isak is convinced it’s him, taking this whole production down. When the play ends, he just wants to stay on that platform and not get up again. The tale of woe is long, difficult, and stodgy.

“Even’s right,” Maja says. “The last act drags.”

Julian nods. “I don’t think our energy is all that great, right now.”

“Our movement exercise was great, though; all of you really trusted each other. It was so different than the first time we did it. We need to get that kind of feeling going again.”

There’s nodding heads, and people splinter off into their groups, listlessly picking up their bags and heading home.

Isak walks back to the apartment with Eskild. There are no calls, or messages from Even.

He brushes his teeth. His phone chimes.

**yo javierrr**

He rolls his eyes at Magnus’s text and flops down on his bed, typing quickly with his thumbs.

**hey steve**

**God that show was good  
Rewaaaaaaaaatch  
any word from your boy?**

**no. when he’s ready to talk to me, he’ll call me.**

**You should reach out**

**okay**

**Show him you’ve got his back**

**sure**

**Omg dude remember  
when you were doing the holy palmer’s scene  
and everyone showed up early and almost saw you guys fuck**

**nearly forgotten thnx for the reminder tho**

**Whatever it was dope  
If Chris hadn’t sent out the wrong call time in a group text to the company  
Even might have gotten you pregnant**

**Chris sent out the wrong time?**

**Yeah, she sent out two texts with the call time but one was 45 minutes earlier  
I heard her apologize to Even after  
He was nice but I could tell he was pissed  
Because he didn’t get to love you up probably**

Isak remembers how blithely Even had handled that, he never told him what had happened. Then again, Isak hadn’t asked.

**do you think his episode is over?  
how long do they usually take**

**he should be good by 23.00**

**really?**

**no, dude, how the fuck should I know?  
everybody's different.  
different strokes for different folks. oskar bråten wrote that.**

**he didn’t**

**Sure, he did. Only it was about factories or something.  
Call him.  
Night, juliet**

**night nurse**

**only you alone can quench this a’thirst  
that’s from bråten’s ungen woooooooooooot**

He calls Even, and it goes straight to voicemail. Isak starts talking the second the beep stops. “Hey, I miss you, I thought that, and I wanted to say it out loud, too. When you’re ready to talk to me, call me, okay?”

The green notepad is in his drawer. Isak will only look at everything play-related, and skip the moment he sees anything personal.

Even makes it easy for him. He’s meticulously entered dates and times. Sunday, 2.10.16 at 1.05. Friday, 28.10.16 at 21.21, and so on. There are drawings and thoughts about particular scenes.

Isak’s in here, too. His name is, with that dancing k. His hair, nose, eyes are drawn on the pages as well, individually in studies. His lips especially. He knew they would be. What did Even call them, “cursive-like”?

_”Oh, I've never met anyone quite like you before” - Every song is about him. Every song is about us. I don’t have to make it so, it just is._

Isak brings the notepad over his heart and holds it there for a moment. He opens it back up.

There are paragraphs, there is space. Isak follows easily. There are discarded ideas that Even crossed out with single, straight lines.

One bit in particular catches his eye. The line _two boys kissing_ is underlined. Underneath is Even’s handwriting, cramped and slanted as if he was in a hurry.

_Bille is uncomfortable, the company is immature, Isak is gold. Romeo and Juliet have to kiss...I need to suggest all that passion without showing too much or asking the actors to do too much? Kisses projected on their bodies? The whole stage becomes their bed?_

_How to make an important kiss unimportant? Solo rehearsal, just the two leads? OR bring in the projections ahead of tech? Do the kiss and the projections at the same time―the company will be too wowed by the spectacle to pay attention to Bille, and Bille will forget to be nervous. We’ll run it once, then again, and it will be the whole company’s responsibility to keep that moment pure._

Isak releases a soft _huh_. That day with the projections, Even was thinking of Bille’s comfort, and of introducing the kiss without making a big deal of it. Isak hadn’t even considered Bille’s feelings at all.

He opens his laptop and opens the folder he created after that first rehearsal, when he was still pretending he’d leave the production, or get fired, or whatever. As if it would have been possible to walk away from Even, even then. Isak opens a blank document and stares at the vast white page. Thinks. Then types everything they talked about as individual clues; starts to piece together the things Even mentioned off-hand, but then applied to the actual staging.

  * Ferocity
  * Film is Even’s medium - he uses projections of films to heighten the emotions of certain scenes
  * Words capacity to brutalize - Mercutio and Tybalt fight, but they also address one another with megaphones
  * What do we do when words aren’t enough - Bille pauses, and everyone on the stage freezes and “pulses” before the final fight with Tybalt
  * Let the words run out - The best part of the “Morning After” farewell is the silent time when Romeo and Juliet run and laugh through all the cast members on stage
  * “Juliet is red, Romeo is blue”



Even wrote that―“Romeo is Blue”―Isak swears he saw it as he flipped the pages. He goes back, and there it is.

_A case for Romeo Montague as bipolar:_

_Montague says “Many a morning hath he there been seen with tears augmenting the fresh morning dew. Adding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs; but all so soon as the all-cheering sun should in the furthest east begin to draw the shady curtains from Aurora's bed, away from the light steals home my heavy son, and private in his chamber pens himself, shuts up his windows, locks far daylight out and makes himself an artificial night: black and portentous must this humour prove, unless good counsel may the cause remove._

_Mercutio says “Romeo! humours! madman! passion! lover!”, and “he will sure run mad.”_

_He disappoints his friends..._

There was more there, but Even had crossed it all out meticulously, with a row of x’s, then erased.

_He’s in love with Rosaline one day and Juliet eclipses her the next (because seeing her in the same room as Rosaline makes him realize the difference between infatuation and something deeper―the ache that feels good)_

_No one believes his feelings are real, but he KNOWS_

_Kiss Mercutio? No...Mercutio’s anger must come for no other reason than the fight. Romeo’s perceived passivity._

_Dark and light, always. Juliet is the sun. In turn, Juliet makes stars out of Romeo._

_When Romeo hears that she’s dead, he doesn’t hesitate to join her. He doesn’t wait. If only he’d waited._

_Should he see her before he dies? Should she see him? Like in the movie. Ask Isak. He’ll decide._

Isak reads Even’s notes until the words get smaller and smaller, become harder to piece together. He can tell what they mean, though, he figures them out. It’s not a code. Even makes connections and doesn’t always bother to explain the gaps. But they’re there. Once Isak’s made sense of them, the notepad is less frightening, with all those thoughts crammed into corners. It’s like Even, always thinking, thoughts much too fast for the page.

He goes back to his list, tries to think the way Even thinks, determined to solve the problem of the ending.

  * TIME, as in how do we show time? - With projections? Showing filmed footage from earlier moments in the show?
  * Luhrmann’s Romeo + Juliet - Maybe they can use a song? Or a moment? “A wordless moment,” as Even called it.
  * Red Curtains - Even said this was about awareness of the audience. They need to know we are looking at them, too.
  * “I love looking at your face” - Romeo first sees Juliet from across a room. Later he watches her talk to herself before revealing his presence. Should he ask Bille to film him? Maybe they can use projections of their own faces?
  * Bring them back to the start, “Somewhere in another universe, Shakespeare writes a comedy,” the lovers flee, they escape, they make it. How do we connect the end to this feeling? Like a loop.



It itches at him, this feeling that he’s forgotten a conversation. Did he talk about time loops with Even? Or was that someone else?

No incoming messages, no texts. He types out _good night, Even_ and sends.

He spends the night staring at the ceiling and projecting all the players onto that bare surface, rearranging them, placing them where they should be.

In the morning, he messages Maja and Julian to tell them that he figured out how to re-stage the end. Together, they meet with Chris and the tech crew to figure out how feasible the changes are.

It’s a go.

Theatre is a superstitious enterprise, and even Isak is sucked into the stupid rituals. Ritual one is meeting Bille in the back of the building and kicking a soccer ball against the brick wall, as they run through their dialogue as quickly as possible. Once done, they go to their shared dressing room to prepare. Bille reads his script, and Isak stretches. He puts on his first act costume, then his make-up. Eskild appears, rolls his eyes, and corrects the mess Isak’s made. _Dark Night_ by Hot Chip means there are fifteen minutes to places. Isak puts his hands over his eyes when the song’s neon-light buzz begins.

**hope you’re doing better  
I miss your voice**

Tuesday’s run-through is tighter. As planned, they stop before the final scene in the crypt. Isak stands in front of the company and tells them exactly what will happen. His voice shakes, but he manages to explain himself. Then the company puts it together, piece by piece, and run through the whole thing once. It’s a disaster. It’s perfect. They have two more days.

On Wednesday, they rehearse the new ending again three times. It’s locking into place, though there are a few slips. Emil worked with Sondre, and now the cast’s iPhone footage is edited and ready for projection. When they’re not onstage, a bunch of the cast and crew cut up tiny pieces of pink paper, enough to fill two giant bags. They’ll need to cut up more for the rest of the run.

 _Come What May_ means ten minutes to places, and Isak hates it.

“Why did you ask me to add it to the pre-show music, then?” Chris asks, with an amused twist to her smile.

Isak sighs. “Even. Red Curtains. Fuck my life, I can’t stand this song.”

This doesn’t stop him from singing the last part of it hand-in-hand with Stine, who winds up having an amazing singing voice. He would swear her to secrecy, but everyone heard them.

Jonas films it, and Isak sends it to Even. He doesn’t care that he looks and sounds stupid. He wants Even to see it, wants him to know.

**yes I’ve heard this song so much I have it memorized  
good night, even**

He adds a big heart to it, then another. Two hearts.

At the last dress before opening, the nerves are contagious. Isak nearly tears his bottom lip from biting it. _Romeo and Juliet_ by Biz Markie means five minutes to places, and five minutes is just long enough to work up an entire wasp-swarm of nerves.

Sana shows up in the dressing room and takes over for Eskild, because apparently fixing Isak’s make-up was cutting into his important prep time. Sana does a better job making Isak look natural. He doesn’t tell her this, but he can tell she knows from the way she smiles at his soft reflection.

“Isabell.”

“You’re only allowed to call me that because you helped me out.”

That’s the only time they talk about that Sunday.

 _Romeo and Juliet getting busaaay._ Ulrik and Mahdi beatbox in the wings, and Isak is too nervous to laugh.

Places.

He misses Even so much.

During the final scene with his mother, Isak goes blank and can’t remember his next line. Jens stares back at him dumbly, slowly dropping character. Isak doesn’t know what to do. Seconds feel like hours, and he swears he can discern Mahdi’s cough in the wings. How do you bullshit your way out of Shakespeare? Improvise some _thees_ and _thous_ and _forsooths_? Refusing to let panic overtake him, he claws his way back to his line using logic, Juliet wants _this_ , therefore she says _that_ , and there are the words. The scene continues smoothly, as if nothing had interrupted it.

Afterwards, before notes, Maja and Julian realize they haven’t put together a curtain call.

“Should we have music?” Maja asks.

“I think it’ll be more powerful without,” Julian responds. “Like no music during the credits after an intense episode.”

Isak rolls his eyes. “Show’s over. We’ve been powerful. We need a song, something lively, so people don’t leave wanting to fucking shoot themselves.”

Chris looks over at Isak, her big eyes going bigger. Slowly, she raises her finger and points at him. A moment later, it hits him, and he points back.

“Chewing gum commercial!” Isak yelps.

“That song about ribs!?” Chris says.

“ _Fineshrine_!” Isak shakes his head. “Wait. What? What do you mean, _ribs_?”

“I have it!” she continues. “Let me go to the booth and put it on.”

As the cast piles onto the stage and gets into places for the ending image, Isak catches Jonas staring up at the two balcony boxes on either side of the theater.

“I want my family to see the show from up there so bad. It’d be so dope.”

“Ask Stine, she could probably hook you up,” Isak says, slapping Jonas on the back.

They stage the curtain call; it’s a giddy affair, because it feels like the final step in an experiment. The only thing left is to run it and then they’ll be done.

He crawls into bed when he gets home, wiggling off his jeans, and stares at his phone. Nothing. Isak thinks he should stop texting, maybe. Perhaps Even doesn’t want to hear from him. As painful as it is, he has to consider that possibility. He hasn’t stopped researching bipolar disorder, and for once, knowledge doesn’t bring calm.

Isak just wants Even well.

Friday. Showtime. They get a half-day off from school. He runs around the block a few times. Kicks that ball with Bille. Puts on his costume and make-up. Sana shows up in a rose-pink hijab, and Isak whistles.

“Wow.”

“You ready, Isabell?”

No, he is not. He really fucking isn’t. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Of course I am. I’m going to crush this.”

Sana smiles, her cheek dimpling, and there’s no riposte. “Open your eyes wide,” she instructs, and Isak does as he’s told.

 _Dark Night._ Fifteen. Fuck.

He can’t seem to put away his phone, but it keeps sliding from his hand. He has puts his head down on the table, careful to rest his forehead on a towel, and tries to get himself together, his leg bouncing steadily.

 _Come What May._ Awful, awful. Ten.

His phone pings, right as he’s about to leave the room.

Even. One word.

**breathe**

Bille squeezes his shoulder. “Ready?”

He gulps. “Yeah.”

Biz Markie's _Romeo and Juliet_ fades out, and the play begins.

Isak doesn’t know if Even’s out there, but he hopes so. He wishes he could see past the dark, to all those eyes he can feel on him, and that one pair in particular. But Even’s not here, he couldn’t be, someone would have said. Isak burns anyway. He watches the fire work its way through each scene, until everything is lit with the immediacy of Juliet’s feelings for her Romeo.

He’s unaware of himself, of choices. Again, he flies.

Tonight is the first time he catches that the word “love” is on more than one costume. It’s everywhere. Each time, it hits him how much Juliet loves.

Juliet wakes up from Romeo’s kiss, only to see him die. There’s not enough poison on his lips when she kisses him, so she uses a knife. The lights shift, go from red to blue to a pale lavender, and the chorus returns, the whole cast, taking their places all over the stage. Craig Armstrong’s music from the balcony scene in _Romeo + Juliet_ begins to play, a hesitant piano. The Prince reads the letter, all the missed messages and needless death. The families reconcile with promises to do better. The lovers are still. Those final words ring out, “A glooming peace this morning with it brings. The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head. Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things. Some shall be pardoned, and some punishèd. For never was a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo.”

When the strings in the song come in, Isak opens his eyes and sits up. Dimly, he’s aware of a gasp in the audience. He takes out the knife and slowly leans down and kisses Romeo, once, twice. Romeo wakes up, and instead of Juliet slipping back to her dreamless sleep, they’re pulled away, and everyone moves. Backwards, in slow-motion, then in real time―shifting back and forth between the two speeds. The play goes backwards, past all the missteps and tragedies. Images of the cast, in-character and out, project on everyone, Juliet and Isak. Bille and Romeo. Jonas, Mahdi, Magnus. The line blurs between themselves and their characters. Jonas is on his skateboard, wearing his red roses shirt, flying in the air and looping back. The circular sweep of his movements punctuates the way he soars. The image flickers over them, and then it’s Nils blowing out a matchstick in the dark. Isak, in costume, sleeps on Magnus’s ample Nurse-bosom. Oda blows her whistle. Maria laughs at something Susanna’s saying, Erik dances alone. The word “love” written out by every single person in the cast and crew, now projected on them as well. The actors keep going backwards in slow-motion, and stopping with sharp movements like a freeze-frame before starting again. Tybalt rises from the ground, and Mercutio doesn’t leap. He’s lifted and flies into the fight, which then goes in reverse. There’s no plague, no houses; he doesn’t die. The strings build as the cast takes the action even further back, and confetti made by the entire company floats down from overhead like cherry blossoms, and finally, they’re at the Capulet party. Romeo and Juliet meet at the center and separate, spin across from one another, and move closer again, their hands coming together like palms in prayer.

They’ve gone back to the moment that changed everything. The moment they saw each other across a room, and everything stopped. Love at first sight. Their story gets told and retold not because they die, but because they love. The cast holds position, and only the lovers keep moving. Romeo and Juliet clasp each other’s hands, laughing, and because they timed it to the minute, it’s their own kiss projected on them at the end, smiles wide on their faces as the lights dim to black on the final crescendo of strings, the sound shimmering.

When the lights go up, _Fineshrine_ comes in hot and bright, and Isak smiles so widely at Bille, he thinks his face will split open. As choreographed, Bille immediately takes Isak’s hand, kisses it, and spins him offstage, while the company surges forward to take their bows.

The audience stands up, and they are fucking loud. By the time Isak takes his solo bow, people are whistling and stomping their feet. There are people crying, wiping their cheeks, total strangers he’s never seen before in his life. Someone hands him a large bouquet of flowers, and there’s sweat in his eyes, or maybe he’s just happy; he can’t really see or tell. They do two curtain calls, and as cool as it is, Isak wants to go find a quiet, dark place to crash.

He can’t believe he has to do this again three more times. _What the fuck._

Back in the dressing rooms, everyone is hugging, and a stunned Isak looks at his flowers in various shades of purple and lilac. The card reads, _to the best Juliet_ and it’s signed, well, scrawled, with a single _S_. There’s another couple of bouquets on his table, and one is from Bille, but the other has no card. He turns to thank Bille, and standing in the doorway, he sees Mamma, her eyes huge and shining. She looks frail, as always, with her large green cardigan, but her blonde hair is piled up on her head the way she likes to wear it for special occasions. He loves her hair like that. Behind her, his father blinks owlishly.

“Hey. I thought you guys were coming on the last night.”

“I made dad bring me tonight.” She hugs him, and he sinks into it, her soft sweater, that soothing scent of sweets. She smells like all the stuff she used to bake for his games. “Baby, you were so good. You broke my heart, and then you put it back together.”

“Thank you.”

They sit down, and Isak removes his make-up with one hand, holds his mother’s hand with the other. The third bouquet is from his parents, and did he like the flowers? He nods. Mamma loved the play, loved him most of all, and tells him that she’s going to come back on the last night, too. It's a little awkward, but it's fine. It's a good start.

Stine runs in, and after a perfunctory introduction to his parents, she hands him an envelope. “This is for you.”

“Thanks,” he nods.

His name is written on the front in that familiar curlicued way. Isak opens it.

> Dear Isak,
> 
> Forgive my handwriting, I’m writing in the dark. I don’t have your light to brighten the page. I feel like I’m still with you onstage as I look down from my seat.
> 
> I’m watching you, as always, and holding you to me. I wish I could tell you everything, and explain it all away.
> 
> I know now that you must have been scared, alone in that house. I always meant to come back. But then I didn’t.
> 
> I’m sorry I hurt you.
> 
> I am sorry I didn’t tell you about my bipolar. I thought that once you knew, you wouldn’t believe me either. How much I feel about you. I couldn’t lose you. I wanted to hold on to it―that feeling of fierce certainty, as undeniable as the sun.
> 
> It’ll be my favorite time soon, I’ll go to my favorite place, and I’ll think of you. You figured me out. Thank you for giving me my ending. I may be alone, but I’ll carry your love with me, boundless and infinite. The sea in your eyes, the curl of your lips. The waves that are your grasping hands. In every universe, in infinite time.
> 
> Love you. Even

It’s so big, this bursting feeling in his chest, that Isak folds the note to its smallest size and puts it in his pocket. As if to contain his emotions, shrink them down to a manageable size. Even had been here. He watched.

Isak talks to his father, laughs away the suggestion that he’s going to act professionally now, because no, and the note burns hot in his pocket.

The tip of his finger touches the paper. “Excuse me,” he mumbles as his parents talk about the weather. Love was never their problem.

The note reads differently the second time around. He thinks about Even being down and believing he’s alone...somewhere. At Mølla waterfall, maybe.

He stands.

“I’m sorry, I have to go.”

Isak kisses his mother quickly, brushes a hand on his father’s shoulder, and grabs his coat and hat. There will be time for explanations later.

He goes. Past cheering cast members, the well-wishers, the Friday night people out on the street. Isak didn’t bring his bike, so he runs. The sky is cloudy and too-light.

A quick check on his phone tells him it’s too far to travel on foot, so he calls an Uber to take him to Hønse-Lovisa’s house. It takes fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes to think of Even’s smile on the tram when he caught Isak doling out dirty looks to judgy passengers. Even in Sofia’s office, listening to Biggie and moving his feet back and forth like windshield wipers, tapping his pen against his leg. Dancing alongside Isak and laughing. Even stroking the planes of Isak’s face gently, falling asleep as he does it. Isak gets out on the road and runs toward the sound of the waterfall.

The benches are empty. The water crashes and seems to rise up and evaporate in the cold.

He sees Even and his butter cookies, their shared coffee and kisses. All songs are their songs, now.

Isak remembers Even’s eyes when he said that he used to come here a lot. But. That was on Aamodt Bridge. He runs, down the long, steep hill, and nearly wipes out on a couple of slippery spots. Eight minutes, he’s got eight minutes.

He makes it there in six.

It’s empty. Isak walks toward it slowly, and as he approaches, there’s Even, walking toward the bridge on the other side. He doesn’t see Isak at first, which doesn’t happen often. Isak has never had the opportunity to observe Even like this. He can barely see Even’s face, but there’s the curve of his shoulders, his untied shoelaces. The shimmer of uncertainty that Isak never let himself really see.

He loves Even.

Even looks up the moment Isak steps onto the bridge. It’s snowing, the kind of gentle snow where the snowflakes don’t seem to fall at all; they float, beautiful and insubstantial, not sticking when they land.

The approach is slow, and Isak doesn’t break eye contact. Even looks exhausted, not quite ready to engage, but Isak moves into his space anyway, rubs a cold cheek to his. Kisses his chin, the hinge of his jaw. Isak takes both his hands and aligns himself to Even, fitting into that perfect space.

Even watches Isak with his red-rimmed eyes, and Isak kisses them, one at a time, then his nose and finally his lips. They are cold, chapped, but still, everything.

Isak has Even, Even has Isak.

There are four words, four words Isak stored in his heart and carried out here, through this cold night, to bring to Even. He whispers those words and hopes that Even hears him. Hopes that they aren’t drowned-out by the steady thrum of the Akerselva beneath their feet. Four important words. For Even, for himself, and anyone who thinks that they are by themselves, day or night, light or dark. He imagines the message as the river itself, carrying the words through the heart of the city, so that everyone knows. Another infinitely-told story to be shared when needed most.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mild canon-adjacent content warnings: canon-typical talk of mental illness
> 
> another long one, sorry! one more to go and the experiment is done. thank you for sticking with me so far.
> 
> songs for this chapter are:
> 
>  _Romeo et Juliette_ by Rare Akuma  
> (Morning After III)  
>  _Act 3: XLVII. Juliet Alone_ by Sergei Prokofiev  
> (The ride back)  
>  _I Follow Rivers_ by Marika Hackman  
> (The show must go on)  
>  _Fair Verona_ by Dan Mangan  
> (The Movement Exercise II)  
>  _Dark Night_ by Hot Chip  
> (Fifteen)  
>  _Come What May_ by Nicole Kidman and Ewan McGregor  
> (Ten)  
>  _Romeo And Juliet_ by Biz Markie  
> (Five)  
>  _Balcony Scene (from Romeo and Juliet_ by Craig Armstrong  
> (New ending)  
>  _Fineshrine_ by Purity Ring  
> (Curtain Call)  
>  _Shine_ by Thomas Dybdahl, Stavanger Vocalensemble  
> (Run)
> 
> soundtrack can be listened to **[here](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLWfM4lhzgKQWns3CZDlp5Y_NFhjrQyaVI)**


	10. Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sunday morning, Isak wants to remain in bed, under the blue-striped duvet, inhaling the comforting scent of his pillows. Rest in the quiet bedroom, sunlight hot through the red curtains, with Even. His body turns in sleep; Isak can see the blue sliver of an eye. His lips and cheeks smush against his arm as he dreams, eyes moving rapidly underneath his eyelids, lank hair covering his forehead.
> 
> Even opens his eyes and reaches for his hand. For a minute, that's all they do. They hold hands. Then they do it for another.
> 
> It is hard, but Isak does leave in the afternoon for the theater. Even’s presence lingers in his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final 21:21 update on the 21st. ❤️️

It’s a fifteen-minute walk, but it takes them nearly twenty; the minutes accumulate. The snow keeps falling, but the ground remains shimmery-wet and slippery. Even’s wearing boots, and Isak bends down to tie his soggy laces.

Isak’s phone chimes steadily with notifications. They’re quickly scanned and ignored. Isak sends out one text, one text only, and mutes his phone.

Ten minutes in, Isak senses Even slowing, so they stop. Isak hugs him again, for long enough to transfer warmth. When Even’s ready to move again, they do.

Five minutes after that, Isak realizes he’s shepherding Even back to Deichmans Gate, so he asks, “Is this what you want? Is this okay?”

Even nods.

They climb up the stairs, and before Isak can help him, Even removes his own shoes, looking at them in his hand as if they were foreign objects. Isak opens the door to a quiet apartment and begins to peel the layers off of Even, hustling him into the bathroom as he does so.

Isak has no idea who he is at that moment, because he doesn’t hesitate or think. Even is his to undress and care for, and that is all there is. The argument he’ll have with himself about whether or not that’s really true can wait until morning. It’s not important now, when his hand is flat against Even’s back, and he’s turning, trembling as Isak towels him dry.

Even remains pliant but silent. This is the longest stretch of quiet that has ever passed between them, and the lack of noise makes Isak hone in on the smallest of Even’s movements instead―the rapid-fire blink of his lashes, the nervous, tight press of his lips. There’s a language there and it is heavy and dark.

Back in Isak’s room, it doesn’t take more than a minute or two for Even to fall asleep, so Isak watches him. Even looks younger, smaller, and Isak feels like he’s looking at a past version of Even, one he only theoretically knew existed. Is Isak doing wrong by having him there? Is this selfishness? This isn’t something he can Google his way in or out of. It has to be lived to be understood.

The minute stretches out, long and flush with seconds. Isak hopes Even knows, curled up in sleep, that he can stay. Be safe here, with Isak.

Isak strokes his hair softly, to distract him from his dreams, and thinks about hope. What hope is, and how closely it aligns to Mamma’s prayers, despite Isak not sharing her beliefs. They both wish for something better.

His phone buzzes with an incoming call. He answers it and goes out into the hallway, leaving the door ajar.

“Hi, sorry. I don’t have his parents’ number, and I wanted them to know that he’s with me.”

“I understand,” Sana says, matching his soft tone exactly. “Is he okay?”

“I think so.”

Isak’s not sure how much he can say. His relationship with Sana is radically candid―maybe because she’s so badass, always kicking the ball back harder―but she’s silent now. Isak hears her open and close a drawer. He doesn’t even know what her apartment looks like, yet she’s become one of his closest friends. How does a thing like that happen?

“And I spoke with his parents, they already knew he was with you.”

Isak thinks. “He must have texted them when we got back here.”

“I’m sending you his mom’s number. She said you shouldn’t feel obliged to use it. It’s only in case you need her.”

“Thanks. For talking to them again.” He listens to her silence; it’s different than Even’s. “Did they tell you anything...about what’s happening with him?”

“No.”

The hallway is quiet, but a soft hum from Linn’s room reminds him they’re not entirely alone. “Sana, I know I should explain more-”

“You don’t have to.”

“But I should.”

“No. You don’t owe me anything.”

He laughs, and immediately covers his mouth to contain the burst of emotion. “Yeah. Well, you did give me back the weed, so you lost your leverage. Can't blackmail it out of me.”

Isak can’t hide the tremor in his voice, so his joke doesn’t land like one.

“That's true.”

“I guess I don’t need to help you in Bio anymore either.”

“Like I ever needed your help.” Sana makes a low, scoffing noise.

“Debatable.”

“Hmm. I should tell you now before I forget...you were wonderful tonight.”

“Oh?” His fingertips stretch out to the doorway and tap the surface lightly. “Were you moved?” he asks, echoing the words of the boy inside his room, sleeping on his bed. “I thought your eyes looked red.”

“No. Something must have got in my eye.”

He smiles. His phone vibrates with another incoming call. It’s Sonja.

“Shit. I got to go.”

“Okay, let me know if you need anything.”

“I will, and Sana...thank you.” Isak hits _end call_ , breathes, and picks up the other line. “Hello?”

He moves a little further down the hall, pressing his hand against the wall. The sensation grounds him.

“Hi. It’s Sonja.”

“I know.” Isak winces after saying it. “I saw your name on my screen.”

“Right. Even’s parents called me.”

“I’m sorry.” Isak straightens. “I can call them.” Down the hall, the hum of music stops.

“No need. They’re good people, and they worry.”

“Of course.” He glances down at his arm. Without Even’s bracelet, the one he used for Juliet’s costume, his wrist looks insubstantial, bare and bony. Suddenly, it feels like he’s reliving last year, when his old clothes were too small, but his borrowed clothes hung off him. It’s like he can’t catch up with himself.

“Isak-”

“Sonja-”

They speak at the same time, and Sonja murmurs, “Go ahead.”

“Look, umm, I know you don’t think Even should be with me because I made him s-”

“I shouldn’t have said those things.” She clears her throat, and Isak can hear her straining to keep her voice steady. “You’re not responsible for how Even is. His bipolar disorder has nothing to do with you.”

That ‘nothing to do with you’ acts like a balm. Soothing the last bit of uncertainty away.

“I’m sorry,” she continues. “For making you think that. It was wrong of me.”

“Thank you.”

Sonja didn’t have to call him to apologize, or tell him about Even’s parents; she could have texted. It’s what he would have done, maybe, to avoid the awkwardness. Sonja made a point to call, though, and let him hear her say she was sorry. Even though she’s no longer Even’s Sonja, and Isak’s the one who belongs to him now...maybe.

“Thank you,” Isak says again, because her gesture makes a difference.

“Okay. I should say good night, then.”

“Wait.”

Isak hears her breath catch. “Yes?”

“Sh-sh-should I bring Even home?”

“I think he might be better off if he stays with you.”

He knows that is true. He’s always known. But it’s good to hear, nonetheless.

Despite everything, Sonja is kind enough to stay on the phone, say a bit more. She loves Even, Isak knows, and he can hear, in her quiet instructions, how she’s letting go of him with every word of advice.

Back in his bedroom, the duvet has slipped from Even’s shoulders. Carefully, Isak lifts it up to cover him, but it’s not long enough.

Isak slides into bed, phone clutched in his hand, just in case, and falls in and out of sleep, tight against the curve of Even’s back.

Even doesn’t sleep non-stop. Sometimes Isak catches him staring fearfully at the ceiling, as if it’s caving in. He goes to the bathroom. Sips some water. Everything seems to exhaust him, but he’s here.

* * *

Early on Saturday morning, sometime between 5.00 and 6.00, he guesses, Isak wakes to find Even staring over at Pushwagner. The kind of looking that’s not looking; it’s too worried and unfocused.

“Hi,” Isak whispers, and clears his throat.

Even glances at him, and even his eyes seem weighted down. “I should go. There's two performances today and you need time to get ready.”

“You can stay. Go back to sleep.”

“Why?” Even’s eyes are so serious.

“Because I won't leave for a while. No one will bother you. I'll be back later after the shows.”

A greasy lock of hair curls by Even’s ear; there’s a dandruff-flake in it. Isak flicks at it, and then tucks the strands carefully behind Even’s ear.

“This isn’t going to work.”

Isak looks up. “What?” He hates how his voice seems to squeak, nerves pushing the timbre way up.

Even speaks. Isak listens, he’s really listens, but Even’s words start to break up. _Sick. Go. Worried. Sad. You._

“I’m not sad.” Isak isn’t, he’s the furthest thing from sad.

_Go, hate me, there’s no use, you._

_You_ , Even says, as if he knows exactly how things will be between them.

Isak’s not sad, he’s...furious.

He doesn’t get his voice under control, not nearly, when he tells Even, _No. You’re wrong._

Isak talks to Even about time, how it isn’t distant, hazy, and far-fucking-away. It’s here, in Isak’s bed. Because they always end up here. Isak and Even. All the Isaks, all the Evens, nose-to-nose, forehead-to-forehead. There is no expectation of some doomed, unknowable future. They are always in the ‘right here’ of this moment. How they may or may not make their way past troubles doesn’t matter. They can’t dismiss what they have without living it, and seeing their lives together through to the next minute, and the one after that.

_Okay?_ Isak’s sure he only thinks the word, but Even nods just the same.

Isak kisses Even, and it is tender. It feels like minute one.

Somehow they fall asleep like this. Isak wakes up later to a quiet knock.

Even continues sleeping, facing Isak, hands folded under his cheek. Isak tiptoes reluctantly to the door, and Eskild is there. He slips out, making sure to leave the door open, and follows Eskild to the kitchen.

“How is he?”

“Sleeping.” Isak nods, rubbing his eyes. “What time is it?”

“11.00.” Eskild has his serious face on―the warm, worried look he gets in his rare non-joking moments.

“Really? Shit.” He shakes his head to wake himself up.

“There’s coffee; I’ll make you some toast. And Even? Do you think he’ll eat anything?”

“I don’t know.”

“Bring him some breakfast, and leave it on the table for him.”

They work quietly. Isak leaves the plate with toast and a glass of water on the nightstand. Even’s shape on the bed doesn’t stir. Isak returns to the living room and takes his toast dry, biting into it slowly.

Eskild stirs some sugar into his coffee. Isak puts the toast down. He rubs the crumbs stuck to his fingers onto the plate. After a moment, he glances up at Eskild, who sits straight-backed and expectant.

“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do,” Isak starts, detailing a plan for the next day or two. As he speaks, he watches Eskild closely to make sure it’s not too much to ask. The warm look grows warmer, and Eskild nods.

A schedule is drawn up and shared in the Kollektiv group chat, so that someone will always be home to keep an eye on Even for the next few days. Even Linn, as unenthusiastic as she is, agrees.

Eskild, who will come home between performances today, insists they do thorough reports. Time, exact details, food consumed or refused, general movements. Noora worries they’re being too pushy. Linn yawns. Isak rolls his eyes, secretly grateful for Eskild’s overblown commitment.

Linn sighs. “When will I get to see the play, though?”

“Stop being such a brat, Linn.” Eskild snaps. “You’ll see it on tomorrow. Even’s our friend too, and we take care of our friends.”

“He is?” Linn asks.

Eskild and Noora nod. And Isak...

Isak can’t quite believe how lucky he is.

* * *

Call time for the Saturday matinee is 12.30, but Isak arrives at the Andersen at 12.00, secure in the knowledge that Noora is home, keeping an eye on Even should he need anything. He kicks the ball savagely and sends Bille scampering to hit it back.

“You’re not bad. Why don’t you play on a team?”

“Because I like to sleep in the morning.” Bille raises his eyebrows, and Isak sighs. “My mamma used to take me to games, but eventually, she couldn’t.”

“You still need your mom to take you to games?”

Isak flips him the bird. “Shut up. That’s not the point. My friends stopped playing too, and I don’t really give a shit. I’m not good enough to go anywhere with sports.”

“I don’t think I am, either.” Bille says with a shrug. “But I like playing. It helps...with life.”

Stine hops out into the Andersen back alley and kicks the ball away from Isak.

“Heeeey.”

Bille stops the ball with his foot. “Thanks.”

She hands Bille a coffee from Tim Wendelboe, and he accepts it with a tilt of his head. Stine smiles back. Isak considers this subtle exchange of heat. “Uh, I’m going to go inside. Bye.” It doesn’t seem like they’ve heard him, and that’s just fine. Let someone else’s love story take over the narrative.

He stretches in the dressing room while Magnus dances like a maniac in the hallway, shirtless.

Mahdi laughs and says, “This is like the shit they play at weddings...that old stuff for grandparents. Like, medleys...what is that?”

“I have no idea, man. The cha-cha slide?” Jonas high-fives Isak in greeting, and Isak slumps next to him.

“Isak, man, you know. It had a name. It’s like, old-time medley of wedding-dance floor music.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Magnus’s new jam is some old song that’s all samples and X-rated rapping,” Jonas laughs.

“Of course it is,” Isak says with a smirk, crossing his arms.

Jonas lowers his voice. “Any word from Even?”

“He’s at my apartment. Sleeping.” Isak reads the eyebrows. “It’s chill.”

“Did you know he was at last night’s show? Chris hid him in the balcony. I looked up in Act IV and saw him.”

Isak nods.

Across the room, Mahdi yells, throwing a robe at Magnus, who now stands there in purple underpants.

“Dude.” Jonas covers his face, laughing. “Put on some clothes.”

“Yo, Isak. Tell your boy to change his underwear.”

“First of all, he’s not my boy.” Isak winces. “Second of all, _ew_. What is wrong with you, Magnus?”

“It’s my superstitious theatre ritual! I’m going to wear the same ones every night! For luck!”

Isak mimes throwing up in Jonas’s lap.

“And what do you mean I’m not your boy, Isak? I’m so your boy.”

“Umm, no. Jonas is my boy. You’re the guy who smokes other people’s weed.”

“For once, I agree one hundred percent with Isak, bro,” Mahdi says, with a laugh.

Magnus looks crestfallen. “I do more than smoke weed.” 

Jonas tugs on Isak’s sleeve. “We sold out last night,” he says, nodding rapidly, an embarrassed smile growing on his face. He’s pleased; Isak recognizes the expression.

“Seriously?”

“And as of today, the rest of our run is sold out, too.” Jonas crosses his arms, lopsided grin now bold.

“Only four performances.”

“Four. One down, three more to go.”

Isak grins with all of his teeth. “Let’s rock this ish then.”

Even’s pre-show playlist blares out and the growing din of the incoming audience is audible on the backstage intercom. Isak prepares. _Dark Night, Come What May, Romeo and Juliet_.

And then it’s places.

Juliet begs to not marry Paris. Her father grabs her by the hair. The audience gasps and holds its collective breath.

Bille laughs so hard as Romeo during their balcony scene, it almost throws Isak off, but in a good way. He has to rethink everything, play differently.

First-year Eline trips during the dance scene, but two-left feet Julian surprises everyone with a deft little spin and catches her, continuing his dance with Juliet as if nothing has happened. Nils drops a line during the Mercutio/Tybalt fight, but Eskild saves his ass by making it his own and turning it into mockery.

Everyone saves each other.

More standing ovations and more bouquets follow. One is handed to Isak by a crying boy he’s definitely never seen at school. Isak nods in thanks. He’s not sure how else to respond.

There’s a small bouquet of white flowers backstage on Isak’s dressing room table. They look like stars with curling, fuzzy pistils. An attached note reads: _to fairest Juliet, burning bright._ There’s no name on it, but it doesn’t need a signature. Isak knows who they’re from. Even must have arranged the delivery days ago.

He cleans his face, and texts Even to tell him the matinee went well. Isak knows Even won’t see the message, but thinks it’s important he knows.

On his way out, a fit, diminutive woman in her forties with expensively highlighted-hair, and the kind of shoes that make announcements, hands him her card. Marit Andreassen, Talent Representation. Isak shrugs a _thank you_ , and keeps walking to the corner where Mamma waits, a bright red scarf around her neck. She smiles her wide trickster smile; the contradiction to her piousness.

“Beautiful.”

She could be talking about herself. Isak doesn't ask her when she got help or how, but he plans to. She seems well and he wants her well.

They have a quick dinner at a nearby Indian place, and then walk back to the theater. Mamma says she’s going home, but speaks with entirely too much big-eyed gravity. She’s never been very good at keeping surprises.

“I’ll see you after tonight's performance, Mamma.”

She places her hand on his cheek. It is warm, so warm. 

* * *

If watching movies with Even has taught Isak anything, it’s to appreciate the use of pacing in a story. Friday night, he could have run from the Andersen, run fast, cut those fifty minutes down to forty-five, and if their story was a film, that additional time would have been enough for a lengthy montage. Him and Even, from childhood to now, and fate. Cruel, cruel fate, because it would have taken too long to get there after all, and they would have missed each other. The bridge would be empty, the snow would have stuck. He would have walked home alone.

But Isak made it, and he walked home with Even.

Their story could have ended before that. With their arms around each other on that bridge, the bare branches of the trees swaying. They find each other. They stay together. They love. Roll credits.

Isak hates those fucking movies. He wants what comes after the names, the thank you’s, the songs on the soundtrack. The boring shit that means so much more, somehow. The minute by minute passing of landscape from the train; everything that leads you there.

Romeo and Juliet don’t get to have the journey. Without each other, they are alone.

From the stage, it feels like everyone in the Saturday night audience is holding their breath, and Isak wants to be the one who decides when they get to breathe again. He sits in a chair as Juliet, looking across the stage; Jens, who plays her mother, is also in a chair. The angry red slash of her mouth like a jagged streak of paint. _Drunk_ is written on the arm of her white suit jacket, and the letters are spaced far apart.

Isak’s voice is distant. Disassociated. Juliet’s lying. “Indeed, I never shall be satisfied with Romeo, till I behold him—” Isak stops and swallows. “-dead—” He pushes a palm to his chest. “Is my poor heart for a kinsman vexed.”

He stands, and Jens stands a moment later.

“Madam, if you could find out but a man to bear a poison, I would temper it, that Romeo should, upon receipt thereof, soon sleep in quiet.” Isak can’t calm his breathing now. “Oh, how my heart abhors to hear him named, and cannot come to him to wreak the love I bore my cousin upon his body that slaughtered him.”

Juliet isn’t much of a liar, either. Even Isak might be better. Juliet’s mother stares at her coldly. “Find thou the means, and I’ll find such a man.”

That line, the way Jens drawls it as if he’s been gargling vodka, becomes one of those things that everyone in the cast and crew repeats, apropos of nothing. Isak nearly said it on Friday, while holding Even’s hand and walking in the snow. The joke was that rote. He was that tired, that buzzed. The words changed, rearranged themselves in his head.

_I’ve found such a man._

The phrase has no connection to the original meaning at all; it means so much more.

He barely hears the music, the cues. Isak is tired but pulsing. Once he’s done with the show, he’ll get to go home.

Bille drops a line in the morning-after scene, but the audience is so wowed by the projections, they don’t appear to catch it.

Mahdi and Ulrik’s music performance is super-good tonight, and the cast knows it so well, that there’s a bit of spontaneous dancing that goes down. It looks almost choreographed.

During the final kiss, the lights don’t fade when they should, so Bille grabs his face and kisses him until the stage finally goes dark. Isak doesn’t laugh, he’s not embarrassed in the slightest, and neither is Bille.

Afterwards, they relax in their dressing room, chaos and music all around them. Isak has his fingers in the cold cream, and Bille says, “We won.”

Isak demurs. “Not yet. One more.”

His phone buzzes with a text. Mamma, who says:

**Isak, you were beautiful again tonight. Dad fell asleep, but woke up every time he heard your voice. Love you.**

In bed, Even’s body is flush and warm. Instinctively, he turns in his sleep when Isak slides beneath the covers. The back of his neck is a blank page.

* * *

It’ll be hard to go.

Sunday morning, Isak wants to remain in bed, under the blue-striped duvet, inhaling the comforting scent of his pillows. Rest in the quiet bedroom, sunlight hot through the red curtains, with Even. His body turns in sleep; Isak can see the blue sliver of an eye. His lips and cheeks smush against his arm as he dreams, eyes moving rapidly underneath his eyelids, lank hair covering his forehead.

Even opens his eyes and reaches for his hand. For a minute, that's all they do. They hold hands. Then they do it for another.

It is hard, but Isak does leave in the afternoon for the theater. Even’s presence lingers in his hands.

Sunday evening, final performance. Three songs. Fifteen minutes. Places.

“What satisfaction canst thou have tonight?” gets a huge laugh. Afterwards, Chris will tell him it’s because Isak looked at Bille like he was brain-dead when he said the line.

One of the prop poison vials isn’t where it should be, so Isak has to mime drinking poison.

Gregard forgets one of his lines, and kisses Nils on the cheek instead, during the Lord Montague and Tybalt scene at the party. He leaves a big brown lipstick stain on Nils, which Lady Capulet rubs off with her fist later in the scene.

The swimming-pool-blue lights are so beautiful. Isak holds his praying palms up and peers past them, remembering.

The Nurse weeps when she finds Juliet, and her tears fall on Isak’s face. He loves playing dead. It’s restful.

Something gooey falls on his face. It had better not be snot. Another drop joins the first. _Fuck._ He’s going to fucking kill Magnus.

Tonight is the last night they go backwards, and several people are crying. Their sobs cascade throughout the audience, falling dominoes of catharsis.

Isak feels something like a tug in his heart. It causes him to look up, and Even’s there, in the balcony, under Isak’s maroon hoodie-hood and hat and scarves. Isak doesn’t look at him for more than that upwards glance, but he lets Even’s presence guide him through the slowed-down movement of the scene, as steady as a hand at his back. Love is everywhere, with all their faces projected behind them, including Even’s, who was added to their montage at the last moment. Isak filmed him in rehearsal, and Even said, “ _‘Look at me like you’re in love.’_ What film?” This time, Isak knows the answer.

One final spin round Bille, who holds him with something like real tenderness, and Romeo kisses Juliet one last time. When the lights go up for their curtain call, Bille and Isak both have tears in their eyes as they laugh and spin away.

The curtain call is sloppy as hell because everyone is dancing and singing along to _Fineshrine_. The audience is dancing as well, and trying to catch the pink confetti that’s still falling from loaded cradles above the stage. Isak has confetti stuck to his eyelashes; he can barely see the flowers. He vaguely remembers Even saying that you couldn’t use flowers on stage because they were bad luck. But surely, this time it doesn’t count.

The backstage area is pure madness. Sana is there and talking to his mother, who came back with a group of friends from church. They tell him they’re big fans of his since his four year stint as ‘baby Jesus’, which unfortunately, Eskild overhears. Going by his delighted face, Isak knows that he’s never going to forget it.

Someone opens several bottles of champagne, and people are drinking out of mugs. Noora hugs both him and Eskild tight. She tells Isak he looks hot, and Eskild pretends to be offended. Marit Andreassen is there again, this time with a young blonde woman in tow. They both wave at him, and he nods back, going the long way across the room to avoid them. On a more pleasant note, he meets Bille’s mom, who is tall and strikingly beautiful. She calls him ‘fair sun’, and he hugs her tight as if he’s known her for years―one Juliet Capulet to another.

His phone buzzes on the table. He glances at it, makes his excuses, and goes to the side staircase that leads up to the balcony and the box seats. Stine stands at the top of the stairs, texting. She looks up and grins.

“Minding the door?”

“Yeah, people are giving him space, but just in case,” she shrugs. “You were awesome tonight. I’ll miss seeing you act.”

He swallows, brings his hand to his heart. “Thank you.”

Linn and Even sit in their chairs, and Linn stands as soon as she sees Isak.

“Oh good, you’re here. I need a drink.” She pats Isak on the head, like a dog. “Nice job.”

“Bye, Linn,” Even murmurs, and she waves over her shoulder.

Even stares at him from the seat and holds up his hand; Isak holds up his. Their hands meet and entwine. Even pulls him down to the other chair.

“Hello,” Even says simply.

“Hello,” Isak replies.

“I don’t think I ever told you how much this eyeliner works for me.”

Isak laughs. Even’s smile is tentative, but present. Isak wants to put his fingers on it, feel that smile’s realness.

“What did you think?”

“I think...you were exquisite.” Even rubs Isak’s wrist. “Casting you as Juliet has been the best creative move I have made so far in my directorial career.”

“Well, I was your only choice, really.”

Even nods slowly. “That’s true. The only one I could have made.”

“Shall we go?” Isak asks, rubbing Even’s thumb with his.

“No, you stay and help with strike.”

“What’s that?” Isak holds a hand up to his ear, face carefully blank.

“No, Isak. You can’t get out of it. Chaperone No. Two is going to take me back to yours. I’m tired, and...I don’t think I can handle seeing everyone right now. Not yet.”

“Chaperone No. Two?”

“Noora. Eskild is One. Linn is Three.”

Isak shakes his head. “What do you mean?”

Even leans in and strokes his cheek softly, before kissing him there. “You’re cute. Tell Noora I’ll be out front.”

“I’ll be home soon.”

They kiss once more, lips to lips.

Strike is long, strenuous, and dull, but Isak does his part. He’s happy to have these last few hours with the cast.

He helps Gregard and Bille stack broken down lumber from the set outside, and returns to a bare theatre. The lights dim and the cast files out, in twos and fours, holding their bags and flowers, leaving nothing behind.

And then it’s over. The play is done.

* * *

Life returns to normal, mostly. Isak forgets how the week used to go, but it wasn’t like it is now. He finds himself savoring the free time, even when it slogs.

Isak goes to class, but Even stays on at the Kollektiv, in what’s now their room. He brings home some school work so Even can start catching up. Takes off Tuesday, so he can help Even make dinner for the Kollektiv as a thank you. Even doesn’t sit down to eat with them, but it’s fine and understood. Also, the food is delicious.

On Wednesday, Isak gets back a 6+ paper in Norwegian. He blinks at it stupidly.

“Excellent work, Isak. I really felt you understood those two girls,” their teacher Seda says. “And you were incredible as Juliet.”

“Thank you.”

She grins, flashing her big white teeth at him, and her copious freckles seem to twinkle.

Jonas slides into the seat next to him, “What did I miss?”

“Bro. Just once, try and make it to this class on time.”

“Heeeeey, look at that.” Jonas claps him on the back, smiling down at Isak’s paper. “Are you going to be a Norwegian nerd as well as a science master?”

“Fuck no, this was a glitch in the matrix. I’ll take the grade, though. What did you get?”

Jonas angles the paper toward Isak. A 5+. The victory would feel sweeter if he didn’t know that Jonas had written his paper the morning he handed it in.

“Did you hear that a reading of _Julius Caesar_ is happening?”

“For real? With Sana?”

Jonas widens his eyes, nodding. “That’s what I heard.”

Across the room, Seda smiles at him. He grins back as he rapidly texts under the desk.

**meet me at lunch**

**Are you buying?**

He rolls his eyes.

**fine**

Outside, Sana stares at the offered cheese toastie―it looks like a melted piece of cloudy-yellow plastic on cardboard―and pushes it away. “Are you seriously offering me that?”

“What? It’s just cheese.”

“Would you eat it?”

Isak shrugs. “Probably.”

Sana sighs and rolls her eyes as Isak takes a truly-terrible bite, and grins as he chews. “So what’s going on with this reading?”

“Friday. For one night only,” Sana purses her lips. “We will do a reading of _Julius Caesar_.”

“With you as Caesar? And the rest of your crew...?”

“Them as well.”

“Obviously, I’ll be there, so that’s not why I’m asking...” Isak regards her with a tilt of his head. “What’s in it for you, though?”

“The satisfaction of a completed project.” She smiles; and if Isak felt, in any way, that he was the reason behind that smile, he might even be frightened. Not that he’s scared of anything. Not anymore. He lifts the toastie and brings it close to Sana’s face, laughing as she leans back in disgust.

“You sure you don’t want a bite?”

“Fuck off, Isak.”

Soon it will be much too cold to sit out here together, but for now, it’s fine. Isak burrows into his scarf, a smile on his face.

* * *

“Friday?” Even repeats drowsily, after Isak’s given him a recap of his day. Isak kisses him softly on the forehead, and scoots down to settle on Even’s chest.

“Do you want to come?”

Even closes his eyes, and if it weren’t for the jump in his jaw, Isak would have believed he’d gone back to sleep. “I think I should probably go home. My mom is anxious to see me.”

“Okay.”

He glances down at Isak, lips parted in surprise. “Yeah?”

“Of course. Whatever you’re ready to do.”

Even’s eyes travel all over Isak’s face as if he’s looking for something. “Why are you so good to me?”

Isak frowns. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Even wiggles down so that their faces are level, placing his palm on Isak’s cheek. Isak does the same, and in a soft, unfocused move, Even brushes his lips against Isak’s hand.

“This minute?”

“Yes?” Isak asks, with a raise of a brow.

“Can we kiss?”

He doesn’t let Even wait for an answer.

* * *

Mamma texts. Not a bible quote, but a photo of himself on stage accepting a bouquet of flowers. He nearly doesn’t recognize his own image.

**Kristin’s daughter showed me how to attach a photo it wasn’t hard look how lovely you are!**

He’s staring up at the balcony, biting at the corner of his own smile. Isak remembers what he was thinking in that moment, what caused him to smile.

**thank you mamma**

“Isak.”

He looks up. Vilde stands there holding her books against her chest.

“Vilde.” He turns and opens his locker.

“You might have heard that we’re having a reading of _Julius Caesar_ on Friday.”

“Yeah, I’ll be there.”

“It’s so wonderful that you’re taking an interest in theatre, Isak.”

He rolls his eyes but smiles. “Thanks.”

A group of dance chicks walk by, in their usual battle formation. “Hi, Isak!” they chant. Vilde watches them make their way down the hall.

“They’re so rude! Didn’t they see we were talking?”

Isak redirects her by raising his hand. “Can I help you, Vilde?”

“You guys didn’t have a cast party.”

“Yes…and?”

Vilde steps closer, eyes glinting intensely. “We want to throw an afterparty on Friday for the production, but it makes sense that _Romeo and Juliet_ have one as well. We can make it a joint group cast party.”

“And?” Isak gestures impatiently for her to continue.

“You should host?” She scrunches her nose when she smiles.

“Umm, okay. But I don’t think we can fit everyone at Kollektivet. The R+J cast is huge, and you have all those Pepsi Max...girls.” At Vilde’s expression, Isak raises his chin. “I’m not saying no. Just saying our place isn’t that big.”

“No! Not at your place. Noora agreed to have it at her apartment. Her and William are moving out, so it’s nearly empty. And it has an atrium roof space! Perfect for a party.”

Isak speaks slowly, trying to understand. “So you want me to host a party at Noora’s apartment?”

Vilde straightens. “Well, co-host. Eskild says he’d also coordinate if you agreed. Noora really needs the help.”

He laughs. Kollektivet to the rescue. Always.

“Sure.”

“Yeah?”

Isak nods. He finishes putting the last of his books in his backpack, and when he looks back up, Vilde’s still there. “Vilde?”

“Isak, what I said about Even when I texted the other day wasn’t right. It’s not nice to spread rumors. At the time, I thought I was helping, but I...I wasn’t. I understand that now.”

He pats her on the shoulder. She’s shorter than her personality. Softer, too. Still annoyingly Vilde, but not terrible or anything.

“It’s chill.” Isak looks past her to see Emma Larzen down the hall, taking her jacket out of her locker. “I have to go...I’ll see you later.”

When Emma turns and sees him standing there, leaning against the lockers, she looks a little frightened at first, eyes huge; but then she squares her chin and seems to steel herself. Her jaw settles determinedly.

“Hey.”

“Hello,” she says.

“Listen, I know you left our production and went to work for Julius Caesar.”

She shakes her head. “I only helped with the fundraiser. My parents were the ones who found the Andersen theater and connected the owners with Principal Fisker.”

“They did?” Isak raises his eyebrows. “That’s awesome. Thank you. Anyway, apparently I’m hosting a joint cast party, and uh, I wanted to make sure you knew you could come.”

“I didn’t mean to lie about how far things went with us,” she blurts.

“Oh?”

Her pallor has increased. “I was angry, and Ragnar wouldn’t have punched you if it wasn’t for what I said.”

“It’s okay to be angry. I get it. But whatever, come to the party. You’re welcome there.”

Isak could say a lot more, he knows this. But it doesn’t feel like the right time or maybe, he doesn’t feel like he’s the right person to say the things she needs to hear. It’s enough that he’s invited her to the party. The rest is up to her.

He’s about to turn away when she grabs his arm. Her hand drops immediately, and she brings it up to her fringe, pushing her hair to the side.

“I...I probably won’t go. But thanks for thinking of me.”

“Of course.”

His phone chimes with a notification from the Kollektiv group chat. It’s a photo of Even and Linn playing video games, and both of them are grinning ear-to-ear. He looks up at Emma, a girl he may never speak to again, really, who probably should never have been pulled into his story in the first place, and salutes with two fingers at his forehead. Spins out of the conversation and down the hall, to the exit doors, the tram, to home.

The photograph didn’t lie. There’s a quiet happiness to Even’s expression that wasn’t present the day before, and Isak isn’t afraid to approach. He basks in the experience, kissing Even firmly until they fall back onto the bed.

Isak’s phone buzzes in his pocket, and he grabs it, reads Vilde’s message, and sighs onto Even’s shoulder.

“Who is it?”

“Vilde.”

Even smiles. “You know, you say her name about a dozen different ways. All of them sound annoyed.”

‘When have we talked about Vilde?”

“You just did it again.” Even’s laughter is silent, but it shakes his shoulders. Isak leans in to kiss one.

“She wants me to buy a Christmas tree for a joint cast party for _Julius Caesar_ and _Romeo and Juliet_. She’s not coordinating, but she’s making the Kollektiv host it at Noora’s soon to be former-apartment.” At Even’s raised eyebrow, he adds, “No, I don’t know anything.”

Even leans in and puts his arm around Isak. They stay that way for a while.

“The reading should end around 20.00, and the party’s at 21.00. _Romeo and Juliet_ wouldn’t have happened without you, so it would be chill for you to be there; but don’t feel like you have to go. I mean that.”

“I know you do.” Even bites his lip. “I’ll think about it.”

“Sounds good.” Isak wiggles back and grins. “So. Feel like going to buy a tree with me?”

“Not really?”

Isak raises an eyebrow. “But we’ll have a good time.”

“I like how you’re trying to make tree shopping scintillating.”

“Well, it would be ‘scintillating.’ Shit. I can carry that tree all by myself. I know you’d like to see my display of strength.”

Even is so close. Isak gets lost in the hues of his skin. He thinks about the colors an artist would use to paint him―the pale blues and violets, the grays.

“I’d been trying to get you to look at me since August, but you never glanced my way.”

Isak stills. “What?”

“Isak Valtersen. Every day. Laughing, but then getting serious when alone. In school, on the tram, at the kebab place. Sometimes angry, but always beautiful. You never looked up, though, no matter how hard I tried to make it happen.”

Isak’s not sure what to say, so he says nothing at all.

“When Sophia and Fisker asked me to direct a show, I was looking at you in the courtyard, and I just blurted out _Romeo and Juliet_. Came up with a concept on the spot. But then I changed my mind and said no.”

“Why?”

“I wasn’t ready. But then a week later, you gave that lady on the train the stankiest look, and I laughed. The next thing I knew, you were looking at me. Then you noticed me again, later that day.”

“I remember.”

Even kisses him on the cheek. “So I took it as a sign, and told them I would direct after all. I never thought you’d audition.”

“I didn’t fucking audition, Even.”

“You auditioned.”

“Whatever.”

“I never thought you’d be good,” Even says, and laughs when Isak shoves him.

“Fuck you, I’m the best.”

“I know you are. Maybe I always knew.” Even closes his eyes. “Too bad you hate acting. I’d make a million movies starring you.”

Isak watches Even for a while. Tentatively, he touches the curve of Even’s bottom lip.

“How do you feel?”

“I’m just so tired,” Even says, rolling over heavily. “Getting up feels like an impossibility, and yet, I do it. I get up. But then, why get up when everything I do makes me tired? It’s tiring to sit up, so I lay down again, and if I’m lying down again, why not just close my eyes? And if I’m closing my eyes, why not sleep? And then keep sleeping. The more I sleep, the more tired I am. It’s not like all that rest makes me any more awake. I’m exhausted. Exhausted all the time, and sleeping all the time. But,” he opens his eyes. “There are reasons to be awake.”

“Do you dream?” Isak asks.

“Yes, I dreamt about you, just now.”

He burrows into Even’s side. “What did you dream?”

“I dreamt,” Even says, touching the tip of Isak’s nose with his index finger. “that you and I were in the Arctic Circle.”

“Brrr.”

“No, it was summer, so it wasn’t that cold. The sun never set, though, just paused in the sky, and made everything orange-gold. Your hair was even longer than it is now, and you had tiny freckles on the tops of your cheeks, and your nose.”

“What were we doing?”

“Nothing. Just walking around or talking. I couldn’t hear what we were saying, but I could see our lips move, and we laughed. It was like I was watching a movie with the volume turned off. But I was happy.”

“That sounds nice.”

“It felt nice. You looked older, though.”

“How old?” Isak narrows his eyes. “Like, elderly?”

Even smiles.

“Yeah? So you like old men, huh?”

“I like older-you.”

Isak pushes Even with the crown of his head. He’s pleased but embarrassed. Not quite ready to show his face and have Even know, like he always seems to know, how Isak feels. He peers at Even. “Do you want to get up?”

“Yeah, I probably should.”

“Cool. Maybe you can come with me to get a tree, then? Your hands will smell so good.”

“So will yours.”

“Mmm. Sticky sap hands.”

Isak kisses Even’s knuckles, and Even laughs. “Okay, sold. Let’s get a tree.”

His laughter is lovely, just like his smile, and, dimmed though both may be, the moment feels like a prelude to Christmas.

The sky is a clouded pink over Kiellands plass, and Isak rolls his eyes through a chat group text between Eskild, Noora, and Vilde debating the height of the tree. He’s instructed to pick something a little taller than Even, and Even dutifully stands next to several selections, his cheeks red from the wind, Isak’s blue beanie on his head.

“You’re nice for doing this.”

Even bends his knees. “You’re nicer.”

They lose sight of each other for a bit as Isak pays and fields a call from his dad, who promises to send more money for the holiday. Money aside, it’s not a terrible conversation. He asks Isak about how the projections were done in the production, telling him he couldn’t get the image of Friar Laurence’s climbing roses out of his head for days.

That’s his father, Isak thinks. Suspicious of his emotional reactions, mulling them over until they can become data. Is Isak any different?

He spots Even standing by the tallest tree of all, staring up at the star perched at the very top. Nearby, an old plastic radio hangs from a stall, playing tinny Christmas music. Isak recognizes the song, _O Holy Night_ , one of his holiday favorites. This version’s in English, and it sounds goofily amateurish. Isak loves it anyway, because context.

“We’re ready.”

Even nods. “I like this music.”

“Me too.”

The wind blows Even’s hair back. It’s unstyled and a little greasy; there’s still some tension to the set of Even’s mouth. Isak takes his hand and squeezes it. Even turns toward him.

“I was thinking. I should go home after we drop off the tree.”

Isak says, “Yes.”

Even nods and squeezes Isak’s hand back. “We could take the tram together.”

They can, and they do. But first, they drop off the tree. Isak holds the front, Even the trunk. Noora’s soon to be former apartment is in a fancy building in Majorstuen, and the ceiling goes on forever for no real reason. The space feels much too big for two people. Their voices echo off the walls.

The tree is placed at the center of the living room area, and Eskild begins decorating immediately, making Linn and Noora dance with him to some shitty pop song as they work. Noora dances more than Linn, who wiggles her shoulders glumly, until Eskild grabs her and spins her around causing her to laugh. Even doesn’t dance, but he puts his arms around Isak, chin resting on his shoulder.

Eskild takes a photo of the two of them, and the blinking lights on the tree are reflected in their eyes. Isak asks if he can post it on his own insta. #nofilter.

Isak gets off the tram first, backwards, to keep his eyes on Even at the window. Even blows on the window of the tram, drawing on the condensation, and as it moves off, Isak sees what he drew and laughs. It’s a dick, shooting hearts instead of jizz.

He receives a photo twenty minutes after he gets home. It shows cup of hot chocolate, long fingers gripping the handle.

**Your mom friend is home**

**I’m home too  
maybe I’ll see you tomorrow?**

**Maybe after the party**

**perfect**

Isak sends Even two red heart emojis and gets two back in return. Sleep comes swiftly after that.

He dreams of angels and snow. Angels, not as people, but as many-faced beings, all feathers and hundreds of eyes, the way the Bible describes them in Esekiel. He knows it’s a dream as he’s having it. He’s unafraid. There is nothing to fear from what isn’t real.

The Friday afternoon reading of _Julius Caesar_ is packed. Isak goes with the guys, and fields congratulations from people who saw _Romeo and Juliet_ and loved it. A lot of teachers are included in this group. Some of them he doesn’t even have classes with, and they probably didn’t even know his name before the play.

That talent agent, Marit Andreassen, is here again. She nods at him.

“Jesus. She’s relentless.”

“She’s looking for actors for some teen show at NRK,” Magnus stage-whispers.

Jonas laughs. “Yeah, she’s been trying to get Isak to call her all week.”

Magnus swallows, and for a moment his acne scars seem redder than the rest of his face. “Are you going to? You could be a star, Isak.”

“I am a fucking star,” Isak deadpans. “I don’t need to be on a TV show to know.”

Mahdi holds up his phone. “Nissen is hosting an open casting call on Friday. They’re asking us to come read in pairs.”

The squad bursts into a flurry of conversation, and Isak looks away, noticing a gaggle of Dance Chicks grinning at him, and flashing those dumb Justin Bieber heart signs with their fingers. He turns back to the group before he’s expected to return the gesture.

“They weird me out.”

Mahdi sucks between his teeth. “Bro, you stupid. Those girls are nice and hot as hell. Even if you’re gay, you should be able to acknowledge that they’re hot.”

“Should I?” He raises his eyebrows and laughs.

“Dude.” Magnus licks his lip. “Can you audition with me for this show, since you and I are such a winning team?”

“Magnus.”

His friend’s eyes widen with hope.

“No.”

“But-”

“I don’t want to. Besides, you don’t need me. Go talk to the agent after the reading. Introduce yourself. She saw the show three times. She knows you’re good.”

“She does?”

“Yeah,” Isak says, with a shrug. “Because you were.”

The lights flash a couple of times, and people settle in their chairs, quieting down.

It’s a reading, so there’s no set, just chairs and music stands holding the scripts. A small table sits to the central chair’s right, an old fashioned tape recorder on top. It’s the kind of dusty contraption his dad used to show him, like old tech was meant to be cool, with big buttons that click hard when you press down.

There’s an odd moment when music starts to play, where he thinks he’s on the wrong side of the stage. It’s a Pavlovian response to the music cue. He’s not an actor anymore, there’s no need to be at ‘places.’ Isak relaxes in his seat, spreading his legs. The lights dim, and the dark silhouetted figures of the cast shuffle on and get into their seats.

It turns out that Julius Caesar isn’t even the lead character in _Julius Caesar_ , the play―it’s Brutus. Who, as played by Sara, is flat and one-note. The rest of the cast is populated with Pepsi Max girls he doesn’t know, with two notable exceptions: Noora, whose Cicero steals focus just sitting there, listening, and Eva as Cinna the Poet. There’s a moment where it feels as if she directs her lines to him, and he leans forward in his seat.

Sana, though. Sana is the strongest actor of them all. Her eyes say everything. She makes Shakespeare’s lines funny, which he hadn’t expected. There’s an easy power to all that she does, sitting straight-backed on a folding chair.

When Julius Caesar is killed, she stands up and leaves. The rest of her cast watch her go. She doesn’t come back. Later on, her ghost appears, but she’s not there to say the lines. Instead Ingrid, who plays Cassius, hits play on that old clunky tape recorder, and Sana’s voice recites her pre-recorded lines―a disembodied voice, already gone.

He sneaks out and sees Sana outside, talking to a boy with close-cropped hair, and decides to approach.

“Do you come back?”

“You want me to spoil the rest of the play for you?”

Her friend laughs, looking him up and down.

“Yes. I was only here to see you.”

Sana smiles. “I'm dead. I don’t come back.”

“I know that. I mean, are you taking a bow?”

“I am not.”

Noora appears, and she’s leaving as well. “It was our directorial choice. We walk out when we die, we leave our chairs empty. Just like our spots in the curtain call.”

“I like it.” Isak tilts his head in Sana’s direction. “Cool, so I’m gonna go, then. See you at Noora’s?”

“Of course.”

“Sana Bakkoush!” Across the courtyard, Sofia waves from her bike. “Good job tonight! Sorry I can't stay!”

Isak waves back at her, and Sofia peers at him blankly for a moment before flipping her braids over her shoulder, and taking off at top speed.

“What was that about? She looked like she didn’t recognize me.”

Noora shrugs. “You’ve met the school doctor?”

“No. But that’s not the school doctor. That’s Sofia...the head drama teacher.”

“No,” Sana interjects. “That’s her sister.”

“But...they look exactly alike.”

“Monozygotic.” Sana’s over-enunciation is obnoxiously crisp.

Isak’s eyes dart among them. “Okay. Whatever. Noora, let’s go get this party started. See you later, Sana...and friend.”

“Brother. Elias.”

Isak successfully disguises his reaction to that name. “Isak.”

“Yeah, the guy who called out Sana’s teacher for being a racist. I’ve heard about you. Nice to meet you.”

“She told you that?” Isak grins at Sana. “Aaw. My best bud Sana talks about me to her family.”

Sana scratches her face with her middle finger, the black fingernail polish on it inky and pristine.

Isak heads off with Noora to Majorstuen to finish helping set up the after-party. The sidewalk bustles with well-heeled holiday shoppers and the usual Friday-night crowds. Bell-shaped lights float over Bogstadveien, decorating every city block. A group of girls about their age walk past them, staring at Noora and whispering. He hears the word ‘pretty’, but Noora doesn’t seem to notice them; her eyes are fixed straight ahead.

“Why are you guys inviting the Pepsi Max girls, after everything that happened with the play?”

Noora tucks her hair behind her ear. “It was Sana’s idea.”

Isak hums to himself, glancing at their reflection in a lit-up boutique storefront. “She’s a good person.”

“The best.”

_It must be so hard to live up to that expectation_ , he thinks. To be good, all the time. He expects that kind of goodness from Sana as well. The expectation feels as calming as science.

The closer they get to the apartment, the more Noora seems to tense.

“Are you okay?”

Noora nods, then casts a furtive glance toward Isak. “I’ll be fine. Sometimes two people loving each other...isn’t enough. To work things out between them. You know?”

Isak recalls his parents arguing at the dinner table about his mother’s proselytizing, and Dad’s frustrated, heavy silence, afterwards. The two of them, living apart, but coming to his play together.

“I do.” 

The music is already blaring in Noora’s apartment, and Eskild is in leggings and mascara, a long piece of Christmas tinsel draped like a scarf around his neck.

“A boa, Isak. It’s called a boa.”

“I know. I’m a sad excuse for a gay. Whatever, Eskild.”

Eskild stops shaking the thing for a second to hold Isak’s face in his palms. “No, you’re not. You’re wonderful.” His eyes are serious and warm again. Isak wants to squirm out of his grip, but he lets himself be adored.

“Isaaaaak!” Chris screams from the other side of the living room. “Go to Noora’s bedroom. There’s a gift for you there.”

He removes his coat and stuffs his hat in his pocket. He takes off his shoes and holds them in his hand. “Okay.”

The bedroom is huge, with a balcony attached, and it’s bare save for a lamp, which is on, and a mattress, which is occupied. Even’s legs are stretched out, clad in black pants and polka-dot socks.

“Where are your shoes?”

Even looks up. Smiles. Nods at the corner with his chin. A pair of shiny, stupidly-long black dress shoes sit there.

“That’s why they weren’t up front.” Isak crouches down and crawls over to Even. “Hi.”

“Hello.”

Their kiss is a soft greeting. Their second lasts a moment longer.

“Nice to see you.”

“I didn’t expect to come. But I heard that this door locks, and that I didn’t have to come out if I didn't want to.”

“You don’t.” Isak smiles.

“I know,” Even smiles back. “But this way, whenever you need a quiet moment, you can visit me.”

“Or.” Isak lifts his chin. “If you need some noise, you can come out.”

“Mm,” Even hums. “I could.”

Isak slides his hand down Even's arm. “You look nice.”

“Yeah?”

“I like the rose. Classy.”

Even looks down at the pink bud in his lapel, fingers grazing the petals. “My mom wants to meet the person I’m dressing up for. Do you think he would mind meeting her? Not sure if he’s interested in that.”

Isak stills, fingers trailing down Even’s back. “Have you asked him?”

“I don’t think I have his number.”

“Oh, that’s too bad. Maybe I can help you out instead?” Isak stretches, then props his chin up with his hand. “I’ve been told I’m an ‘actor’.”

“There are those air quotes again.”

“The fucking best actor around.”

“The fucking best,” Even repeats, throwing his head back to laugh. Isak is lost for a moment, watching him, lost in the feeling of fluttering joy the sight gives him. It kills him to know that he once thought Even smiled too much. What an idiot past-him was. Even should smile all the time, and at Isak especially.

“Yes, me.”

“What are you suggesting, then?”

“That you hire me to play the part of your boyfriend. I can give you the full boyfriend experience.”

Even waggles his eyebrows. “The full experience, huh?”

“Yup, for a reasonable rate.”

“So you’re a prostitute?”

“No,” Isak’s eyes widen. “I’m an actor.” He holds a forefinger up for emphasis. “Close, but not the same thing.”

“I want this full experience.”

“You’ll get it.”

Isak and Even grin at each other for what feels like an endless moment. This is exactly where Isak wants to be.

“I should get to the party and help before people start showing up.”

“I’ll be here.” Even pats the bed.

“Hey, did you know Sofia had an identical twin sister?”

“Yeah, the school doctor.”

“How did everyone know this?”

“It took me a while. I thought she was everywhere at once, at first. Very Shakespearean.”

“Are there twins in his plays?”

“Yes, at least two other times that I can think of. It’s a good device. Worth further study.”

Even and his stories. Isak glances at the book Even’s reading. The cover is a brightly-colored illustration of a woman with bare breasts and an animal head.

“Is that...good?”

“So far,” Even kisses him again. “Go, Isak. Before I start telling you about it and make you stay.”

And they do stay, for a bit, just like that, forehead-to-forehead. Isak makes sure the door is locked from the inside before heading back to the living room, just as the doorbell rings for the first time.

* * *

In less than forty-five minutes, it’s a party. A couple of the braver Pepsi Max girls do show up―a tall brunette named Laila who played Caesar’s wife, Calpurnia, and a pug-nosed blonde who played Portia. Sana welcomes them warmly, flanked by Noora and Vilde.

Eskild places a Santa Claus hat on Isak’s head. Gamely, he wears it and dances for a few numbers with Chris and Linn. It’s only been a week since he last saw the whole R+J crew, and he’s surprised at how much he missed them. Not just Julian, who’s totally making out with Maja against a bookcase. But also goofy Ivar, Hiro, Ulrik, and Nils. Even gossipy David, and the too-cool Susanna Taslimi, who seems to have turned down Mahdi after all.

“No SHOWMANCE for him.”

“Like you’ve got anything happening,” Jonas sighs.

“I’ll have you know that Marit lady agreed to meet with me to discuss representation. She wants to see how I do at this NRK open call thing, but heeeeey,” Magnus grins. “I might be on TV!”

“Way to go, Magnus!”

They all raise their Tuborg cans.

“Wait…” Isak says, looking to the side. “Does this mean Magnus might start getting paid, and therefore be able to put in cash for the weed?”

Mahdi shouts “Oi!” along with Isak, and they high five.

“I feel like we need to give Isak back some of his share,” Jonas winces. “Mahdi and I smoked most of it.”

“Naaaaah, man. After all that nonsense with losing it, he got as much as he needed.”

“No.” Isak frowns. “I paid a third, I get a third back. I mean, I know you don’t go to math class, since you don’t even have a backpack, but you should be able to figure that out, at least.”

“I have a backpack!”

“Yeah, it’s like,” Isak emphasizes a few centimeters with his fingers, “that big. It holds a pencil and a pen, maybe. Bro, where are your books?”

Jonas grabs his stomach laughing. “Holy shit, that’s right. Where are your books, Mahdi?”

“In my locker, fools. I don’t carry them around like you guys. Mahdi ain’t fucking up his back. Nope.”

“Don’t get distracted. My third needs to come back to me, one way or another.”

“What third is that?”

Even walks in and nods at each boy, before his gaze lands, a beat slower, on Isak. It’s the tiniest shift in tempo, like real time changing to slo-mo.

There are hugs and back slaps. Eventually, Chris comes in and attaches herself to Even’s side. Stine joins them a little after that, Bille at her elbow. Bille and Isak fist bump and make casual plans to kick a ball around next weekend, though Isak firmly draws the line at meeting before noon.

It’s very nearly normal. But it doesn’t escape Isak’s notice that Eskild and Noora take position at the kitchen’s entry, keeping too many people from coming in. Or that Even, despite his dress pants and shirt, the tidy pink rose in his lapel, looks a little disheveled and tired. Not quite the perfectly coiffed superstar Isak first saw on the tram that fateful Monday.

But he’s Even.

They take their leave of the kitchen, and Isak and Even make eye contact as he walks out. It’s a promise of later, and soon.

Isak clears up some cans from the kitchen, emptying them by hitting them against the sink.

“You’ve always been such a good little boy, Isak.”

He glances over his shoulder.

Eva stands there in her stockinged feet, holding a couple bottles of champagne.

“Eva...Hi,” he says, stepping over to her with his arms open. It’s what he’s always done when he sees Eva. He embraces her; it feels both natural and unnatural. Both awkward and comfortable. When she’s in his arms, he closes his eyes. “Nice job tonight.”

She breaks away from him to put the bottles carefully in the fridge. “Thank you. And you were amazing in _Romeo and Juliet_.”

“Oh, you saw it? Which night?”

“Closing performance.”

Isak quickly reviews everything that happened that night. “Right. That wasn’t too bad.”

The lights flicker momentarily. They both look up and then at each other, laughing.

“What the fuck?”

“I’m glad you saw it too.” He straightens his Santa hat, feeling slightly silly to be wearing it, but leaving it on anyway.

“So are you going to keep at it?”

“What?” He licks his lips.

Eva laughs and raises her eyebrows. “Acting?”

“Oh.” Isak shakes his head. “No. It was just for fun.”

“Your director is really hot.”

Isak smiles, biting his lip. Nods. “Yeah.”

“That must have been nice.” Eva says, tilting her head. “I saw your photo on insta, are you-”

“Together? Yeah.”

“He’s your boyfriend.”

His smile feels stupid on his face, still. “Yes.”

“You seem really happy.” 

Isak considers the open honesty of Eva's face. No one speaks truth like Eva, with a kind of guileless conviction. “I am.”

“So...is he your Romeo?”

“I hope not.”

“No?” Eva blinks in surprise.

Isak shakes his head, somewhat surprised himself at the intensity of his response. He rushes to clarify. “I don’t want him to die for love. Or run off without talking to me. Even’s good as he is.” _Perfect._ Isak wants to add. Perfect for him.

Eva leans against the counter. Her hair is shorter. It sits neatly just past her shoulders, no wave to it at all.

“When did you cut your hair?”

“At the beginning of the year.”

“Really? Shit.” He’s such a terrible friend. Former friend. “I miss hanging with you. We saw each other every day for a while.”

“Summer after middle school,” she says, pulling up the sleeves of her red top.

“Yeah.” He climbed in and out of Eva’s bedroom window nearly every other night. They talked about so many things, but mostly Jonas, of course. Mostly him.

“Eva, I’m really sorry about fucking up your relationship with Jonas, and lying to you about why.”

She gazes at him. “You didn’t fuck up anything that wasn’t already fucked up. And the other thing...I kind of already knew.”

“You did?”

Eva smiles. “Hey. Remember when you slept over that one night and drooled all over my pillow?”

“I did that? No.”

“Yeah. You woke up in the afternoon. I don’t think you’d slept much that week. You were ‘catching up’, you told me.”

Isak shakes his head, laughing at himself. “That’s not really a thing.”

“I didn’t think so.” She sways at the counter, running the toe of her shoe on the ground as if she’s drawing a line in sand. “Are you sleeping better?”

“Yeah. Life is good.”

“Is it because of your boyfriend?” Eva asks.

“Yes.” Isak swallows. “And no. Even’s awesome. Time with him is...everything. Morning and night, light and dark, all of it at once. It can be hard, but.”

But...

  * Even’s smile and laugh.
  * How he challenges Isak when he’s bullshitting.
  * How he won’t let Isak get away with anything, but it feels like love anyway.
  * It is love.
  * There’s no questioning it.



He loves a boy, and the boy loves him back. What could be better than that? Even _Moulin Rouge_ ’s depressing af ending acknowledges that it’s “...the greatest thing you’ll ever learn.”

“I used to sleepwalk through my week, pretending everything was fine. But it wasn’t. Every day bled into the next, and I was asleep through most of it.”

“Asleep?” Eva frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Not literally, but, you know, not really here, and therefore, not me. Not real.” Isak licks his lips. “But for a while now, I’m not just looking. Because I’m letting myself be seen. Does that make sense?”

Eva nods, moving closer to him.

“Every decision feels important, because I’m connected to it. Every moment, second, minute, hour. Little by little, bit by bit, all that time becomes a life. My life. And yes, life is good.”

So good.

They hug in the kitchen, Isak and Eva, this time as punctuation. It’s the final sentence in a chapter, signaling the start of a new one. Together, they walk towards the music playing on the upper level. Isak finds Even halfway there, at the bottom of the stairs, grinning when he sees Isak. Eva keeps walking, casting an appreciative eye back at Even as she climbs.

Even’s deep voice is rough-edged and warm. “Hello, there.”

Will it always be like this? Them meeting and greeting one another as if each time is brand new? Maybe not. But at this moment, it’s exactly what Isak wants.

“Hello to you, too.”

“Nice Santa hat.” Even’s fingers play with the white ball at the end of the stockinged cap.

“Thank you.”

“I’ve been thinking about your offer, and I would like to take you up on your services. How much is your fee?”

Isak slings a lazy arm over Even’s shoulder, pulls him closer for a kiss. “My rates are reasonable. They involve making dinner―and I mean _you_ making me dinner. Some drawings. A few five hour playlists. And maybe even a dance movie or two.”

“Ah-ha!” Even cries out. “You like dance movies after all!”

“Eh. _Strictly Ballroom_ was okay; that Scott Hastings guy was hot,” he says, laughing as Even dives in to kiss him, a faux-put-upon look on his handsome face. “But if I’m watching with you, maybe I can deal with another?”

“I’ll make a list.” Even’s eyes go upwards. “Look.”

There’s a sprig of gold spray-painted mistletoe hanging from the spiral staircase right over their heads.

“That’s not fair. Everyone has to go up and down these stairs.”

“You’re missing the point, Isak.”

“What? That now we have to kiss?” Isak tilts his chin up, pulling back when Even looks like he might be making a move.

“So first you must be wooed?”

“Of course. Though I'm not easily won.”

Even smiles. He takes a pink rose from his lapel and holds up the stem. “I took the thorns off.” He gently places it behind Isak’s ear and gazes at his face, truer than true and deep as the sea. “Did my heart love till now?”

“Now?” Isak asks, with a raise of his eyebrow.

Suddenly, all the lights in the apartment go out, and the room goes black. The music cuts out too, and from upstairs, the partygoers groan, laugh, and shout. Even holds him tighter, then finds Isak’s lips in the dark, their entire bodies―feet, legs, knees, pelvises, chests, and mouths―aligned. Isak slides his hand into Even’s hair, holds him through each kiss, and Even laughs breathlessly every time their mouths part.

_Now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soundtrack for this chapter is:
> 
> _Don't Leave_ by Anne Ternheim  
> (Staying)  
>  _Minute by Minute_ by Girl Talk  
> (Magnus Gets Down)  
>  _Romeo's Seance_ by Elvis Costello and the Brodsky Quartet  
> (Saturday Night)  
>  _All I Need_ by Radiohead  
> (Sunday/Exit Music for a Play)  
>  _Gut Feeling_ by Peter, Bjorn and John  
> (Bygones)  
>  _Midnight Sun Dream_ by Hanne Hukkelberg  
> (a Dream)  
>  _Oh Holy Night_ by Sufjan Stevens  
> (star on Kiellands plass)  
>  _A Little Respect_ by Erasure  
> (Eskild Dances/#nofilter)  
>  _You and Me Song_ by The Wannadies  
> (Bogstadveien/Noora's bedroom)  
>  _Right Now_ by Rihanna and David Guetta  
> (The Party Begins)  
>  _II. Earth: The Oldest Computer_ by Childish Gambino and Azealia Banks  
> (...But Playing In Another Room While Talking to a Friend)  
>  _Halo_ by Ane Brun and Linnea Olsson  
> (Mistletoe)  
>  _i_ by Kendrick Lamar  
> (Outro)
> 
> The soundtrack to this fic can be listened to **[here](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLWfM4lhzgKQWns3CZDlp5Y_NFhjrQyaVI) (YouTube)** and **[here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/53LzgXnuxT7nAGcOKLh9Vf?si=VUixBvSJTf2pWfPGe74YvA) (Spotify)**
> 
> That's the end of the experiment! Thank you for making it to the last chapter.
> 
> Now that I've gotten canon out of my system, I'll be back shortly with something a little different. ❤️

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to:
> 
> the mod at SKAM Big Bang for their patience and understanding with my plague and laptop situation
> 
> my paired artist, @vanderheijdenn, for being the sweetest
> 
> the wonderful **[Cheshirecatstrut](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheshirecatstrut/works)** and **[MinilocIsland](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MinilocIsland/pseuds/MinilocIsland/works)** for beta reading roughly one billion words and vastly improving this monster
> 
> the lovely etal and Hopetoseeyouagain who consulted on their own gift story that I hope they still like despite the fiery hoops
> 
> the TSH squad for their input and patience
> 
> norwegian readers for not roasting me too hard for all the liberties I took with their story that I love very much
> 
> any of you that took a chance on some rando writing 90K+ of canon-aligned SKAM fic about 4 years too late and left kudos and/or a comment and recommended this story to others ❤️️ ❤️️
> 
> follow me on tumblr for cat reblogs and poor tagging choices: @ghostcat3000
> 
> a soundtrack for this story can be found on [**YouTube**](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLWfM4lhzgKQWns3CZDlp5Y_NFhjrQyaVI) and **[Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/53LzgXnuxT7nAGcOKLh9Vf) ******


End file.
